


Watching Birds

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Drama, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8311567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Arthur's a cat. Well, no, Merlin has a cat called Kitty. But, then, well, there's some accidental magic, and kitty is demanding and big and chooses a name and is generally a nuissance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Partially betaed by 7thchevronlocked
> 
> WARNINGS: Merlin leaves home as a teenager not wanting to, has a fraught relationship with his mother, is sad a lot, Balinor dies, depression, dipolar, anxiety, for some reason i talk about arthur as 'developmentally challenged' (wut ok that is. ugh), Arthur is ace, he is also a cat, that is probably not fun for some people so, and basically a lot of this is a mess.

Merlin is born just after lunch on the same day that Balinor brings home a kitten, too early and so small. Two surprises at once, Hunith always says, laughing, whenever her tiny son gets into trouble with his tiny kitten. Merlin, as soon as he can crawl, follows the kitten around, peering together into dark places, getting stuck in small crannies, tumbling from sofa and bed and chair. As soon as Merlin’s big enough he starts scooping the kitten up and carrying it about everywhere, back legs dangling, face a picture of grumpiness but not complaining over much. They sleep together, and when Balinor leaves with the navy after Merlin’s third birthday and doesn’t return, Merlin takes his kitten and runs away with it, hiding in the shed until it starts to rain and the kitten starts to hiss and glare.  

“You know,” Hunith says, one day, when Merlin’s turned four and five and is well on his way to six, “we can’t call the cat ‘kitten’ anymore, not really.”

“Kitty,” Merlin corrects absent mindedly, too busy building a spaceship out of lego to pay attention to the grown-up matter of needlessly naming things.  

“How about Smutty? He has a black ear, after all,” Hunith suggests, stroking the cat’s head and making him purr, “or Honey, for his coat?”

Merlin puts down his lego with a deep sigh and looks at his mother dolefully, then transfers his gaze obediently to the cat.  

“You can call him whatever you like, Mamma,” Merlin says, going back to his spaceship.  

So, the cat remains Kitty, and he continues to grow. When Merlin turns ten and Kitty gets sick he cries and cries and Hunith has to explain over and over again how even though they’re the same age, Kitty will always grow faster than Merlin, and so, one day, perhaps soon, Kitty won’t be able to stay any longer. Merlin refuses to understand until Kitty comes home from the vet, cured of his ills, and curls up once more at Merlin’s feet. Then Merlin sits down and writes a story about two best friends who age at different speeds but, because they live forever, neither minds.  

When Merlin turns thirteen he changes school and finds friends, and Kitty’s now old enough that playing is mostly out of the question, so the two spend less time together and Kitty goes from being mostly Merlin’s to being mostly Hunith’s, curling up with her on the sofa or in the kitchen when she’s home from work, lying in whatever warm spots he can find, accepting whatever cuddles and petting she gives him with little purrs. Merlin thunders through the house around them, a whirl of friends and shouts and energy.  

When Merlin turns fourteen and a half he kisses a boy and a girl in a game of dares and comes home with a black eye and a scowl and Hunith has to explain why someone might hit him for kissing a boy, too. Merlin scoops up Kitty, something he hasn’t done for a while, and goes to sulk on the sofa. He joins the LGBT society at school the next day and tells Kitty all about it and the people he meets and the things he learns. He tells Kitty, not Hunith, because he’s quite embarrassed about it all and thinks that he’s not actually gay _or_ straight and maybe he just likes people and cats and everyone the same. Kitty just curls up and goes off to sleep in Merlin’s lap.  

When Merlin turns fifteen, he has to move again. He has to leave his mother and his home and go to live with his Uncle in England, far away from Ireland and the soft accents he’s used to and the people he cares about. He puts Kitty into a box and takes him along, calling it an adventure, ignoring the burning anger in the pit of his stomach over having to leave. He doesn’t understand why his mother’s sending him away, she won’t tell him anything at all.  

The first time it happens Merlin is fifteen and four months old. He comes home from school and finds his uncle Gaius bending over his cat tutting, a needle in one hand, holding the cat down with the other. Kitty hisses and twists, but the injection goes in and he goes still. Merlin drops all his school things, his football boots and bag and books and notebook and coat and PE kit, and shoves his uncle out of the way, scooping his cat up.

“What did you do?” Merlin says, slow and quiet and dangerous, stroking the soft fur of Kitty’s head.  

“He was in pain, Merlin. I just gave him something to help him sleep, help him relax. I didn’t hurt him,” Gaius says, eyes pitiful and gentle.  

Merlin turns away and stomps upstairs, refusing to have the conversation again. He curls up on the bed with Kitty and scowls at the wall.

“He’s not putting you to sleep. I won’t let him. I’ll find a way to make you young again. Stupid old man, thinks he knows everything. Stupid old woman, sending me here to the stupid old man. Everyone’s just too stupid, Kitten,” Merlin says.  

He closes his eyes and instantly he’s asleep. His dreams are gold and he can’t follow what’s happening. They’re strange, sensory, shape and colour but no meaning. When he wakes up, there’s a boy curled up on the bed instead of a cat.  

Merlin yells in shock and that summons Gaius, who shouts at Merlin about not bringing friends home and getting naked together and then frowns and raises an eyebrow in baffled confusion. They stare together at the (naked) boy on the bed. Merlin probably stares at him in an entirely different way to Gauis, because the boy is very, very lovely. Long, supine limbs stretched out to the sun-spots, soft, golden hair, mouth a haughty but gentle bow, a contradiction that fascinates.  

“Merlin, where is your cat?” Gaius asks, eyes fixed on the golden hair.

Merlin draws his eyes up, over thighs and stomach and other things, to look at the hair again.  

“I don’t know,” Merlin whispers, seeing what Gaius means.  

“Well,” Gaius says.  

Merlin closes his eyes and shakes his head, but Gaius yelps making his eyes snap back open. There, on the bed, is Kitty. No boy, no limbs or stomach or thighs, just the golden hair stretched across the sun spots.  

“That was…” Gaius says, voice hoarse, “oh hell! If there was any doubt about Balinor before, there’s none left now.”

Over the next few years Merlin learns about his father. He learns what ‘Missing in Action’ means and, when Gaius explains what happened to his mother, he learns what grief means as she sobs over the phone, unable to control herself, saying ‘oh, Bal, oh, Merlin’ over and over again until her voice goes. He learns about control and strength and magic, and how the three interlink. He learns about elements and spells and intuition. And Kitty stays a cat, no matter how hard he tries to change that. He doesn’t die, though. Somehow, he’s been given a new lease of life. Not youth, just life. He’s still an old cat, he still has arthritis and much prefers hobbling about after Gaius and curling up for long, long quiet hours of reading and writing than trailing after Merlin’s energetic chaos, but he’s alive.  

Merlin somehow manages to get good GCSEs, jamming normal things like school, football and dating in among the slightly less usual meeting other magic users, networking, practising, researching, learning about his power and preparing for a university course that includes powers. He even manages to scrape a handful of ‘b’s in his a-levels and get into his third choice university to study languages, with a focus on French, in a joint honours with Powers.  

By the time he’s twenty five he’s finished his masters (writing a dissertation contributing to the field of study surrounding the use of magic as a defence, and how that might make peace without war possible) and is working in a tiny office in London for a charity that, as far as he can tell, mostly raises money in order to fundraise. It’s not perfect, but he figures he’s lucky to have a job, lucky to have a job that pays enough for him to live in London, lucky enough to live and work within the same five mile radius and lucky to… well, no, his social life can’t really, in all good conscience, be put on that list.  

Merlin gets home at half past six, chucks his bike helmet, lights and high-vis gear into the basket for it (he gave up on anything more organised), staggers through to the living room and slumps into the sofa, narrowly missing squishing the cat. Merlin reaches out and fluffs his ears, noting the familiar lumps and scars from fights, the edge of a scar from his illness, the bones beneath the skin, the patchy fur.  

“You’re getting old,” Merlin says, sadly, “perhaps it’s time to let go of you. Twenty five years must be an eternity to a cat.”

The cat doesn’t answer, unsurprisingly. Merlin flicks his wrist and shuts his eyes, using his magic to take an inventory of everything in his kitchen that might do for dinner, cupboard doors opening and closing as if conducted by his hand.  

“Nope,” he says, when he’s done, “pickle and pickle on slightly mouldy bread with the last inch of cheese does not sound appealing, however I package it. Take-out it is. Chinese or Italian, Kit?”

Kitty mews plaintively and butts against Merlin’s hand, then lays his head down on the sofa cushion and closes his eyes. He looks so scrawny, his bald patches making him look like a stray, and he looks so weary. Merlin closes his eyes and tries to turn him human one last time, then, when it doesn’t work, clicks his fingers for his phone and calls to make an appointment with the vet for later in the week before ordering a pizza.  

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, to the cat, “I’ll do it, this time. I promise. I just have no one else, not really. Who knows about Mum, I haven’t heard from her in months, and Uncle Gaius is too old to travel nowadays so I have to go all the way up to Leeds to see him, and this job just doesn’t give me that kind of time, and- and I’m making excuses and making you suffer. My friend.”

Merlin looks at the sleeping cat and sighs, scooping him up into his lap. He falls asleep before his pizza arrives, and isn’t roused by the doorbell, or the delivery man banging on the door, or his phone. He sleeps on, tucked awkwardly into the sofa with his cat, the room darkening and then brightening to silver in the moonlight, then dimming, then turning pink and grey with the dawn, eventually settling on a gentle golden that promises a nice day later on.  

Merlin wakes to something heavy on him, warm and heavy, something that smells like heat and sunshine, and sweat. He frowns. He doesn’t remember bringing anyone home last night. He nudges experimentally and opens his eyes. To skin. Pale, soft skin. Probably a shoulder. He nudges again and the someone on top of him stretches with a soft growl, then rolls off Merlin to the floor. Merlin looks at the someone.  

“Oh, shit,” he whispers, “I did it again. Shit! Kitty! Oh… ha!”

His cat, now a very bad tempered looking young man, hisses at him. Merlin laughs, incredulous, and beams.  

“What-“ the cat says, voice soft and threatening, the threat immediately undermined by the yelp that comes right after.  

The man’s eyes go wide with surprise and he looks down at himself, then up at Merlin, scowl deepening.  

“You have turned me into one of you,” he says, lip curling in disdain.  

“I didn’t mean to,” Merlin says, grinning, “but, yeah, I think I kind of did.”

“You said I could go, now. Last night you promised me.”

“I know, I…” Merlin trails off.  

He was going to say he would keep his promise, but putting a cat to sleep is a hell of a lot easier than putting a man to sleep, even if said man is less of a man than a man and more of a cat.  

“I am in pain,” the cat says, licking his hand, then making a face and staring in surprise at the skin.

“Oh,” Merlin says, biting his lip, “I’m sorry, I know… I didn’t think! I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to cause you pain. I can… I can fix it, I think. I’ve never been fantastic at healing spells, but-“

Kitty then proves that cats are more aware of human goings on that surround them than Merlin had thought by backing away and hiding in a corner, refusing to come out until Merlin promises not to even think about trying out any healing magic. He then curls up on the sofa, still completely human and completely naked, and refuses to speak to Merlin.  

Merlin charts the differences between the boy who turned up at fifteen and the man now. Then he was a lank, if graceful, teenager, now he’s much more filled out. More muscular, somehow, even though as a cat he had been skinny as a twig. His face is more angular, the gentle curve of chin, jaw and cheek sharpening. The disdainful lips are mostly the same, but thinner, less like a small child.  

“You have work, _master,_ ” the cat hisses, without moving except to stretch further into the sofa.  

Merlin goes to work.  

For the next two days he inches around his own small flat, trying not to irritate the highly upset feline who is suddenly as big as Merlin, much stronger, and able to shout and throw things. For the first day Merlin comes home to the smell of urine, and has to teach Kitty that peeing in the plant pot was not okay as a cat, and definitely is not the thing as a human. He also has to explain that while being naked in the flat is fine, wandering around the rest of the building is not and going outside into the street is actually illegal. Then he has to explain about laws. His ‘cat’ just glares harder and harder. Merlin’s half amused, half saddened when he comes home on the third day and finds Kitty inching around the flat, shuffling, bent like an old man.  

“Are you in a lot of pain?” Merlin asks.

“I am old,” the cat hisses in reply, belying his claim with a swift, graceful turn.  

“Um, I hate to… well, I mean… not… in human… how you are now, not so much. More, kind of, only just a grown up?”

The cat scowls, opening his mouth to hiss, then changes his mind and turns away, head held high as he stalks out. Really, truly stalks, footfalls soft, physicality low to the ground, close to the walls, flickering. As if hunting something. At least, if he’s stalking away, he’s not hunting _Merlin._ Merlin waits, and when he hears nothing else he relaxes, moving across the little kitchen. He’s just reaching for the kettle to make tea when he’s pounced on and brought to the ground.  

He yells and kicks and is rolled over and over, a ball of golden fluff and dark hair and nakedness and jeans and he yells again, realises it’s the cat and goes still, holding his breath, looking up into the smug face, the curl of the lips, the pleased flick of tongue.  

“Ah,” Kitty says, “so, you are not always incorrect. Age, it seems, is fleeting in this world. My bones do not ache.”

Merlin is shocked when Kitty bends and licks his face, but before he can properly react, the cat has leapt gracefully up and is gone. Merlin follows, watching as Kit finds his new centre of gravity, moving around the house carefully at first and then not so carefully. Merlin watches the years, the pain, the shuffle, the bent back all slide away and leave only the grace and ease of movement, the almost dancing way of shifting and walking.  

“I like this,” Kitty says, folding up in the sunshine by the window and closing his eyes to doze.  

Merlin grins, pleased.  

It takes much longer for the cat to get the hang of language than it does for him to get the hang of movement. Oh, he talks and complains and tries, but things like conversation and matching words to thoughts and thinking deeper and further than food, like, dislike, pain and pleasure takes time. He refuses to cover himself in any way so he’s stuck in the small flat, and by the end of the week it’s either learn about words and start reading or give in and put clothes on. The cat starts to read.  

Merlin gets home, thinking ‘end of week two’, tosses his keys towards their basket (the same one his bike stuff goes in) and then freezes as they’re caught out of the air and the cat rolls across the hall to crouch at Merlin’s feet, keys caught beneath one hand.  

“Oh, hello,” Kitty says, getting to his feet and depositing the keys in Merlin’s hand, eyes on their glint.  

Merlin tries to drop them in the basket again, but again they’re caught and then Kitty pads away with them still in his grasp as if they’re his prize. He gives Merlin a look over his shoulder as if to say ‘I caught this beast, it belongs to me, it is my slave, you are my slave, I will rule the world and you will cower before me now that I have your beast within my grasp’. Merlin dups the rest of his stuff in the basket and follows to the living room, where the cat is batting at the keys, held in one hand over his head, with a foot and his free hand. As Merlin walks in the cat lunges and catches the keys in his teeth.  

“Um,” Merlin says, “I need those. Kitty, I need the keys.”

“Arthur,” the cat says, “is my name, and these are mine. I like them, I shall have them.”

“That… isn’t how things work.”

“Then you will get me my own.”

Merlin hesitates, but then agrees to that. He gets his keys back and he goes to make himself dinner. He’s just put the pasta in the water when he registers the rest of what Kitty said and goes back to the living room.  

“Arthur?” he questions.

“Yes. I read a book, and there was a man named Arthur, who had a pet called Merlin. Just like me.”

“You were my pet, not the other way round.”

“You brought me food, served me, massaged me when I ordered it, made all our shelters, carried me when I demanded it, gave me gifts, made my bed, cleaned up after me. You are my slave, I thought you might prefer pet, however.”

“I think you need to work on connotations of words,” Merlin manages, weakly, “to call a human a pet is…”

“Why? It only refers to animals? Surely it is a high honour for humans, to be classed among the superior species?”

“I…” Merlin tries, “Kitty, I th-“

“Arthur.”

“Arthur, then, fine. But…”

Merlin can’t think of an argument and Kitty- Arthur, nods, pleased, and sprawls across the floor.  

“You must rub my back, Merlin,” he says, “it turns out that this human body does not land as well as my smaller one used to. I am sore.”

Merlin pauses, imagining whatever lead to the cat falling, wishing he’d seen the clumsy moment, then goes to rescue his pasta. When he returns to the living room it’s to a bad tempered cat who hisses at him and refuses to talk. Next time, the cat’s back seems to say ‘you will do as you are told’.  

Next time Merlin does rub his back, but only because he’s sat on the sofa and having a lap full of Kitty isn’t at all objectionable after a long, lonely day at work. Merlin discovers that humans can purr and as the cat’s muscles loosen his chest starts to rumble. His throat vibrates, and a sound emerges that is half bumble-bee, half lawn mower. It’s far louder than a cat’s purr.  

“You need to work at another place,” Arthur says, when Merlin gets home one evening.  

Merlin opens one eye from his prone position on the sofa and looks blearily at Arthur. Merlin’s got used to him as a man, now, after a month, and he’s also got used to him being naked, calling him Arthur, and the way he demands things. Arthur looks stubborn, the pout that he’s learned since becoming human taking over from the usual arrogant snide that usually sets his lips. Merlin blinks.

“I’m too tired for this,” he manages, “just tell me what you want.”

“I want you to get a job where you are not sad.”

Merlin opens his mouth, then shuts it. This last week has been hell. He nods instead of speaking and, as if in reward for doing as he’s told, Arthur gets onto the sofa with him and curls up around him, sun-warmed skin heavenly against Merlin’s cold body. Merlin snuggles closer and sighs happily, drifting off to sleep.  

“I want clothes,” Arthur says, when Merlin wakes.  

“What?” Merlin asks, looking around the dim living room.  

He’s starving. He flicks his hand absently and charts what he has in the house, but there’s nothing. He sighs.  

“Clothes. I want some. Well, I do not want them, actually, but I am tired of being a prisoner in this little box.”

“There are clothes in the bedroom,” Merlin says, “top drawer.”

Arthur pads out and Merlin drags his tired body off the sofa, going to find his coat and shoes. It’s been ages since he had fish and chips. He looks at his coat, discarded in the hallway, and his smart work shoes, discarded in the bathroom, turns around and goes online to order an Indian.  

“I need to go shopping tomorrow,” he says, half to himself, half to Arthur, “should probably make a list.”

Arthur comes back into the living room wearing a t-shirt.  

“Is this enough?” Arthur asks.  

“No. I’ll show you, tomorrow. You can come shopping with me.”

Arthur growls, tears off the t-shirt, pounces on it and starts to try and tear the fabric with his teeth. Merlin watches, amused, as Arthur learns the difference between human teeth and cat teeth. Arthur walks away with dignity, leaning the saliva covered shirt in a heap. Merlin finds him, later, already in bed, sulking. He climbs in behind him and curls up, pleased when Arthur forgives him his amusement and cuddles in close.  

Arthur refuses to go inside the supermarket, instead waiting outside. Merlin comes out to find him lying on the street in the weak sunshine, smiling wide and happy, hand running through the tiny patch of grass between pavement and building wall. Merlin tugs him up and gives him a lesson in germs and public rules of behaviour. Arthur takes his shirt off and runs down the street, chest bare, yowling happily.  

Merlin says he’ll take away Arthur’s clothes and really lock him in the flat if he doesn’t pay attention to social codes of behaviour at least as far as not running about half naked and rolling around on the ground.  

Arthur sulks, raids the fridge, and eats the fish Merlin got as a treat raw, then goes to bed and sulks, starfishing across the whole bed and not letting Merlin have any space when he tries to go to bed later. Merlin’s forced to sleep on the sofa, which he is going to have words about with Arthur tomorrow. He manages to fall asleep though, fairly quickly, and he’s warm and comfortable so he decides the words will be in terms of explanation instead of anger.  

Merlin wakes up in the dark and wonders why, then remembers that he’s on the sofa and growls in frustration. If he sleeps badly he really will shout at Arthur tomorrow. He has enough of being exhausted during the week, his weekends are supposed to be a relaxing time to recuperate his energy so he can do it all over again. He’s just about to sneak into the bedroom to see if Arthur’s asleep and maybe has made space for him, when he realises the bathroom light is on and Arthur’s throwing up.  

“Are you alright?” Merlin asks, leaning in the doorway, rubbing his eyes against the harsh light.  

Arthur doesn’t answer, instead retching loudly and heaving into the toilet, whatever it is that disagreed with him coming up in a flood of bile and chunks. Merlin grimaces and goes to get a glass of water, hoping it’ll be over when he returns. He waits to hear the loo flush before going back, passing Arthur the glass of water and watching him gulp it down.  

“It was probably the fish,” Merlin says, “shouldn’t eat it without cooking it first.”

“Stupid human stomach,” Arthur grumbles, voice wavering and hoarse, “I did it in the loo, because you told me this is the place to deposit waste.”

“Yeah, that’s… yeah. Thanks.”

Arthur looks at the toilet and frowns, then turns a funny colour and retches, frantically shuffling himself back into position to bring up whatever’s left in his stomach. Merlin saves the water from toppling and spilling over the floor and then waits, feeling a bit awkward. He’s never been great with sick people and he’s even worse, it turns out, with half cat half people… creature things.  

“I can’t believe I used to eat that,” Arthur pants, when there’s a pause, explaining what set him off this time.  

Merlin feels a little sick himself and leans over to flush the mess away, hauling Arthur up to his feet.  

“Come on, bed.”

“What if my stomach does that again?” Arthur asks, stumbling along at Merlin’s side.  

“I’ll get a bowl for you to use.”

In the end, Merlin doesn’t get any sleep. He doesn’t shout at Arthur, though, it would be cruel after Arthur spends the night vomiting. They both spend most of the next day sleeping or dozing or, in Arthur’s case, throwing up now and then. Merlin calls in sick on Monday and they sleep like the dead, curled up together, Arthur’s pale face buried in Merlin’s neck.  

Merlin cooks the remaining fish for Arthur to try, once Arthur’s stomach has settled back to normal. Arthur says he prefers it raw but accepts, grudgingly, that it’s nice cooked, too. Merlin stifles his laughter, carefully not mentioning Arthur’s bliss at discovering the fresh taste of properly seasoned fish. Instead he carefully tucks away the memory of Arthur’s rapture in the back of his mind and nods his absent agreement with whatever Arthur says.  

He spends every Saturday for the next two months working on finding a new place of employment. To begin with, this pleases Arthur. He curls up in whatever room Merlin’s working in, finding the warm spots, and keeps him company, sometimes padding around the flat to stretch or stalking a patch of sunshine as it moves across the room, but generally being a silent companion. After three weeks Arthur starts to get restless. After five he starts hovering. After six he begins pacing.  

“Why haven’t you got another job?” Arthur asks, arms crossed in bad temper, standing directly behind Merlin and breathing down his neck.

“I’m trying,” Merlin says, frustrated himself, “It’s not easy.”

“Find a new job. Your current one is not good enough.”

Merlin has tried to explain to Arthur about money, but the concept is too difficult for a cat to grasp. Arthur just always frowns and says that humans are stupid.  

“Finding work is a full time job in itself,” Merlin says, sighing and rubbing his face, “It’s hard.”

“Just go to a new place every day.”

“That’s… not quite how it works.”

“I will not stand for you continuing this job.”

“You know that I’m not actually your slave, you know? Look, I go to work, I do as I’m told, and they give me what I need to keep this flat, to feed and clothe two people. I have to find another job that does the same thing. Minimum wage just won’t cut it.”

“Minimum wages are not good,” Arthur says, “tell them to pay you more of this money you say we need.”

“Arthur…” Merin gives up and gives in to his frustration, “Just leave me alone. I’m trying, okay? If you’re so… just get your own bloody job, or something, I don’t know. Just go away.”

Arthur folds up and curls in the heated spot on the floor in front of the window, where the sun’s been all day. Merlin supposes being left alone is what he wants, but he can’t help the wave of frustrated sadness and anger that washes over. He never wanted to be responsible for another human being, he just wanted his nice little cat, who curled up with him and didn’t annoy the shit out of him.  

“I need money,” Arthur says, the next morning, around a mouthful of cornflakes.

“What for?”

Arthur looks shifty, but doesn’t tell. Merlin gives him twenty pounds and leave him to whatever it is he’s up to. The next three weeks he comes home to find Arthur dressed in increasingly smarter clothes, tapping away on Merlin’s laptop, a look of stubborn concentration making him pout a little. Merlin asks once or twice but just gets glared at for his effort, so he leaves it and hopes he doesn’t get a visit from policemen or something. One day he gets home to an empty house.  

For a moment, he thinks Arthur’s gone. The desperate panic at that is unexpected, and it swamps him. He stands in the middle of the living room, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do. What is the protocol for finding a lost cat who isn’t actually a cat anymore? He’s just about got to the point of combustion when the front door opens and he’s accosted by a bundle of energy and warm skin and rolled about the floor in Arthur’s arms, Arthur gradually losing his clothes as they go.  

“I got a job,” Arthur tells him, when they come to a stop under the radiator and Arthur lets Merlin go.

“What?” Merlin says, breathless and rumpled.

“I got a job at Tesco. I have to wear a uniform and go in two times a week after the shop closes to put things on the shelves.”

“Is that what all the secrecy and knicking money from my wallet has been about?”

“Apparently one must dress in a particular way to be considered for these jobs, and taking clothes without having money is not allowed, you told me that. I looked up on the spider web in your computer about finding jobs and people made words on the screen to give me advice.”

“The internet?” Merlin guesses.

“Yes. I’m still getting the hang of that.”

“Yeah. So, you have a job. Well done.”

Arthur preens under Merlin’s praise and a look of content smugness spreads across his face. Merlin feels an odd mix of pride, relief and something else and he sits cross legged with Arthur for a while, not doing anything, just sitting and watching the man doze and stretch.  

Two weeks later Merlin wakes up to Arthur getting back from work, crawling into bed naked (as always) and curling up close to Merlin, making a disgruntled sound. Merlin waits, but Arthur says nothing, just nudging and butting in closer, making irritable growling noises.  

“What?” Merlin asks, whispering in reference to the late hour.  

“They told me I’m not allowed to work anymore.”

“You got fired?”

“Yes.”

“Did they pay you?”

“Yes, but only a little bit of money and only for what I did already.”

“Yeah, that’s how it works. What happened?”

“They said that I was supposed to shelve the food, not eat it.”

Arthur sounds so doleful that Merlin does not laugh. Instead he hugs Arthur and lets him try to fuse himself with the warmth from Merlin’s body.  

“I got another job!” Arthur yells from the living room, three days later.  

Merlin puts his keys and things away and goes through, foot sore and tired. He yawns and sprawls across the sofa. Arthur comes and lies on top of him.  

“I got a job,” Arthur says again, breathing in Merlin’s face.

“Well done.”

“At the library. I go in on some mornings and put books on shelves. I’m good at books.”

“That’s brilliant.”

This job lasts a bit longer than Tesco, but not by much. Arthur comes home after a month looking chagrined and confused. He explains that he was listening to the stories, curled up with the little children.  

“Did they fire you for that?”

“No, I fell asleep.”

“Why didn’t they just wake you up?”

“Because they could only find a ragged old cat. They threw me out.”

“You… turned into a cat again?”

“Apparently.”

“Huh.”

Merlin spends his free time for a while trying to work that one out, but can come up with no more answers than before when trying to work out Arthur’s shape-shifting. All he manages to do is give Arthur a pair of donkey ears. Arthur enjoys that for a while and brays at the top of his lungs, makes Merlin scritch at the ears and enjoys having fur once more. Then he gets cross that Merlin cannot understand him and makes Merlin take the ears away.  

“I have a job,” Arthur tells Merlin, coming into the living room after the donkey incident.

“What is it this time?” Merlin asks from where he’s lying on the sofa trying to get up the energy to make dinner.

“I’m working at a cattery! They let the cats stay there. I figure I’m fitted for such a job.”

Merlin has to admit that Arthur is in a unique position. He tentatively hopes that this one will work out. After three days Arthur comes home in tears and refuses to speak for the rest of the week, until Sunday when he curls up in Merlin’s lap and says he can’t work with cats. He doesn’t tell Merlin why or what happened, but Merlin doesn’t need to know. He brushes the hair off Arthur’s forehead and scritches his scalp and gives him attention until he purrs.  

The next job is at a small paint-a-pot shop down the road from Merlin’s flat and, after a few weeks, Merlin starts to think this time it might actually work out. The woman who owns the shop seems to think Arthur has some kind of undiagnosed developmental problem or something, which Merlin doesn’t correct the one time he picks Arthur up, because in some sense Arthur is behind in development. Arthur seems to enjoy sitting with the children and painting, actually likes clearing up, and setting up the displays and keeping things clean, and he’s even allowed to work the till after a bit, which he gets in a muddle with but eventually works out.  

Merlin’s relaxed, actually finding it easier to do that now that Arthur’s started insisting on using his fortnightly pay-check to get the groceries, when he wakes up to find himself in bed with an arthritic cat instead of Arthur. Merlin yells in surprise and, remembering he’s naked and thinking of claws in uncomfortable places, he topples himself out of bed and lands with a thud, taking the duvet, a pillow, his phone and a book Arthur was reading last night with him.  

Arthur stretches and jumps down onto Merlin’s chest, pressing his paws against his skin, one after another, seemingly content with being a cat again. Merlin points at him, opens his mouth, can’t think of anything to say and goes to see if he still has any cat food. Arthur goes and curls up in a patch of sun and, by the time Merlin’s eaten his breakfast, is once more a naked man. He looks up at Merlin from his position on the floor and smiles.  

“I thought I’d have to miss work,” Arthur says, idly rubbing at his nipple.  

“You… cat,” Merlin gets out.  

“Yes, it happened a few times. This is the first time you’ve noticed.”

“Why didn’t you say something!”  

“I am a cat,” Arthur says, “Why would I tell you that? Surely you know it already.”

He gets to his feet and wanders out, and Merlin puts it out of his mind, thinking it’s a fluke. When it happens again a week later, though, he gets himself a Monday off work, forces Arthur to do the same, and they get the train down to Leeds to talk to Gaius and Merlin’s old professor, Kilgarah.  

“Ah, Merlin,” Gaius says, giving him a hug, “and… Kitty. Hello. Or, I hear you go by Arthur, now?”

Arthur follows Merlin into the house and starts padding around the boundaries, peering at the windows and under the beds. Merlin watches him re-familiarise himself with the old house and sees the cat in him more than he usually takes notice of.  

“Tea, Merlin,” Gaius says.  

They sit in the kitchen, Arthur curled up on the rug spread out by the stove, dozing in the heat.  

“He really is the cat,” Gaius says.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, “he’s got better at being human, but he can’t give up his warm spots.”

“He was arthritic and half dead last time I saw him.”

“He still is, as a cat. I think… when he got sick, when I was a kid, I wrote a story where we were both immortal. Maybe some of my magic got into it, and then, when I wished for him to go on living, I repeated and enlarged the spell, and then, when he was really about to die, it all just… coalesced?”

“You’re magic is very instinctive. Maybe.”

“He keeps switching back.”

“Does he? How interesting. Well, I suppose we had better work that out.”

“I’m going to talk to Professor Kil tomorrow, I made an appointment to meet him for a coffee, but maybe you could look at your old books?”

“I’ll do that. Now, though, tell me everything that’s going on with you so I can truthfully tell your poor mother, who you never call, that you’re doing well.”

Arthur goes with him, the next day, to meet his professor. He doesn’t seem to like being in a strange place, he sticks really close to Merlin (to the point of nearly tripping him) and keeps hold of his jacket sleeve, keeping his head down. He looks up when they pass an electronic-gadget shop, distracted by a mechanic toy plane that’s spinning in the window, but otherwise he barely reacts to things around him. Merlin tucks him into a corner table and goes to get them drinks, then sits between Arthur and the room, feeling protective of his strange friend.  

“What’s this?” Arthur asks, sniffing his drink.  

“Hot chocolate,” Merlin says, surprised that in all this time he hasn’t a.) made it at home, or, b.) had it at a café with Arthur.  

Arthur sniffs his mug again and then sticks his tongue into the whipped cream. His eyes go wide and stunned and he sucks eagerly until the cream is gone, then sticks his tongue into the dark chocolate. Merlin laughs, distracted from his own coffee by the display.  

“Careful, it’s probably hot further down,” Merlin warns.  

Arthur dips only the very tip of his tongue in, then picks up his spoon and slurps the drink up a spoonful at a time, looking contemplative.  

“Good or bad?” Merlin asks, “what’s the verdict?”

“It’s dark,” Arthur says, putting the spoon down and looking at the drink, eyes narrowed.  

Then, to Merlin’s surprise, Arthur picks up the mug and gulps the rest of the chocolate down before peering into it, his face falling in disappointment at only finding the bottom.  

“I thought maybe there would be more white. In stripes,” Arthur says, sadly.  

Merlin grins and goes to get him a squirt of cream in his mug, telling the guy behind the counter that he’s a little simple and really sweet and please, please, please?  

“Eat it slowly,” Merlin says, putting it in front of Arthur, “you can’t have more.”

Arthur nods and uses the spoon, sucking each mouthful in and closing his eyes to savour it. Merlin’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice his professor arriving until he clears his throat, making Merlin jump out of his skin and nearly knock over his coffee.  

“Professor!” Merlin says, “good morning. Sorry, hi, I was…”

“He’s a cat,” Kil says, looking at Arthur, “how intriguing. Did you do that? Are you wanting my help turning him back?”

“No,” Merlin says, “yes. I mean, yes he’s a cat, but he doesn’t want to turn back. I don’t think, anyway.”

Merin realises that he never actually asked Arthur and turns to do so, but the man has vanished and in his place is a cat, hissing at Kil across the table.  

“Ah, I see the problem,” Kil says, eyes squinted.  

He mutters for a second, then waves his hand, eyes blazing, finger tips brightening to gold, and Arthur shivers in the air, not there and yet there, and then is back to his human form, still hissing at Kil across the table.  

“It’s my dragon blood,” Kil says, “he can smell it.”

“Dragon blood,” Merlin says, “right. Can you… fix him?”

“No,” Kil says, with a shrug, “I’m afraid not. The form is, I suppose you’d say, unstable. It changes at his will, not mine.”

“But you just switched him.”

“I simply… encouraged shape. As you did, in introducing him to this one.”

“Introducing him? I didn’t change him?”

“Obviously, that would not do at all. If we could just change one thing for another, willy nilly, the world would be a simply marvellous but very short lived one. Chaos is not good for the order of the universe. Unless you happen to be a physicist. Anyway, thank you for the coffee, I have classes.”

“Merlin, my white is gone,” Arthur says, leaning so he obscures Merlin’s view.  

All Merlin can see, for a moment, is blond hair and pale skin, a freckle, Arthur’s nostril. When Arthur draws back, Kilgarah has gone. Merlin curses and goes to pay the bill, Arthur trailing after him, cleaning the mug out with a finger. Merlin confiscates the mug and hands it over the counter, dragging Arthur out of the shop.  

“Can we buy some? For at home? What’s it called, the white?” Arthur asks, putting his hand into Merlin’s, eyes following the cars and the people.  

“Shush,” Merlin says, “Look where you’re going and calm yourself.”

“But, we can buy some?”  

Then, Merlin tells a lie. It isn’t a big one, but his mother used to tell him it was a slippery slope and he feels a little bad about it for the rest of the day.  

“No, that was the only place which had it. It was called Lembas. You can ask, in other places, but I’ve never seen it anywhere else.”

Merlin tells Gaius, later, Arthur stretched out in front of the TV watching a show about cooking, what his professor said. Gaius suggests they stay for a bit longer and he can try and work out how, when and why Arthur changes, but Merlin cites work and goes to bed disappointed. Arthur’s sleeping the guest room and goes up after Merlin, and Merlin’s unaware of much, mostly asleep, half listening to a news program, until Arthur comes tumbling into the room and dives under the covers.  

“What? What?” Merlin asks, surprised and a bit afraid by the sudden entrance.  

“I wanted to sleep in here,” Arthur explains.  

“Why?”  

“Because.”

Arthur curls in close and sighs heavily, tiredly, then sneezes into Merlin’s neck. It’s damp and not very pleasant, and Merlin almost shoves him away and makes him sleep on his own. Then he gives in and lets him stay, lets him curl around Merlin and snore himself to sleep, lets him tug and pull Merlin into his arms, lets him hold him warm and safe and familiar.

When Merlin wakes on Sunday, Arthur’s a hot presence at his back, hot and restless. Merlin turns and is surprised to see Arthur’s eyes open and gazing back at him. Usually Arthur’s up as soon as he wakes, wandering naked through the flat to dig out food and then finding himself a warm spot to curl up in to wait for his body to wake up properly.  

“Morning,” Merlin says.  

“I feel… bad,” Arthur says, frowning at Merlin, “I hurt.”

“Hmm? Where?”

Arthur touches his head and then pulls Merlin’s hand against his stomach, eyes closing.  

“And… like, inside,” Arthur says, shifting.  

Merlin uses the hand not against Arthur’s naked belly to feel his forehead. He can’t really tell if he’s hot, but he can’t tell that he’s not, either.  

“I think you’re sick, maybe?” Merlin says, not sure at all.  

“Sick. Like when I was dying, long ago?” Arthur asks, eyes opening sluggishly.  

“Dying?”

Arthur moves Merlin’s hand up to the scar on his chest and Merlin swallows dryly and nods.  

“I hope not quite like that,” he says, quiet and a bit hoarse, “nearly lost you, then. And you were still…”

Merlin had been going to say ‘just a cat’, but he decided against it. To his surprise, Arthur turns away. For a second Merlin thinks Arthur guessed his thoughts and was offended, but then Arthur hangs off the side of the bed and vomits.  

Arthur refuses to get the train home and refuses to let Merlin leave and refuses to let Gaius drive them and basically refuses to be at all reasonable. He makes Merlin stay with him and rub his stomach and holds him when he throws up. Merlin wouldn’t mind, except Arthur’s still throwing up on Monday, and still throwing up on Tuesday, and feverish by Wednesday. By the time Thursday spins around and Merlin yet again calls in sick his boss tells him if he’s not there the next day, he shouldn’t bother to come back.  

Merlin goes upstairs to tell Arthur he has to go home now, no choice, but when he gets there, Arthur’s curled up in the centre of Merlin’s bed, a mess of blankets around him, face covered in a sheen of sweat. He looks bad, his hair matted and dirty, his eyes red rimmed, his nose and cheeks a frantic red against the white of the rest of his skin. Gaius has assured them it’s just a bout of the flu, but when Arthur gets up on an elbow to throw up into a bowl already half full, Merlin gives in.  

“Let me empty that,” he says, when Arthur finishes retching, “and get you some water.”

He gets onto the bed with the clean bowl and a water bottle and helps Arthur curl up in his lap, then strokes his damp hair off his face, rubs a thumb over the hollows of his cheeks, soothes him with a gentle touch along his jaw and then cradles a hand around the back of his neck, humming something mindless.  

“I feel bad,” Arthur murmurs, shifting, “I feel bad.”

“I know,” Merlin says, lightly, easily, “Shh, I know you do, love. Get some rest, hmm?”

Arthur closes his eyes and tries, but he started a cough last night and it won’t let him rest, and every time he coughs it seems to upset his stomach a little and make him nauseous, and he’s so congested that his breathing’s a little wheezy, and his eyes squeeze shut against the pain in his head.  

“Alright,” Merlin says, after twenty minutes, “up. You go curl up on your bed while I change the sheets here to nice, clean, cool ones. Then I’ll make a hot-water bottle for your stomach and see if Gaius can find something for your chest.”

Arthur does as he’s told, but he clearly doesn’t know why he’s being banished from Merlin’s company. He gives Merlin a sad look when Merlin leaves him alone and Merlin feels bad, listening to him coughing, thinking of his plan to actually abandon him. Gaius is in the kitchen, already boiling the kettle, a hottie waiting in the sink.  

“I can hear his chest from down here,” Gaius explains, “I’ve called a friend of mine who’s a practising GP. I didn’t think taking him in was a good idea, not when we don’t know…”

“Yeah. He’s a cat,” Merlin agrees, “no, it’s good, I don’t think he’d put up with… yeah. He never liked vets.”

“I have something that is the equivalent to Vicks, but I thought I’d wait until Alice had been.”

“Okay,” Merlin says, “his breathing’s a bit shit, though. I think it’s just congestion, but- no. You’re right. Doctor.”

Gaius fills the hottie and slides it into a plain cover, handing it over with a soft, understanding smile. Merlin snorts, thinking ‘at least someone understands something’ and then goes upstairs. Arthur looks up when Merlin slips into the dim room and smiles, wide and surprised if a bit glassy.  

“You came back,” Arthur says, getting up onto an elbow.  

“Of course,” Merlin says, sitting on the edge of the bed, “want to come back to my room or stay here? I’ll stay with you, either way.”

Arthur’s already sitting up, using Merlin’s shoulder as support, and shuffling towards Merlin’s room. Merlin smiles at the happy sigh Arthur makes on finding new sheets and the almost purr when Merlin presses the hot water bottle to the small of his back.  

“You want this here or on your stomach?” Merlin asks, pulling the duvet up.  

“There.”

“Alright. Rest a bit, someone’s going to come and have a look at you, make sure you’re okay.”

Arthur moves, so Merlin’s between Arthur and the door, and then presses his face into Merlin’s side to cough.  

“You sound awful,” Merlin says, worried, rubbing Arthur’s head gently the way he liked as a cat and still seems to like now.  

Arthur subsides and lies, quieter and stiller than Merlin’s used to. Not that Arthur doesn’t spend huge amounts of time lying about dozing, but he’s usually languid, stretching, twitching with dreams, shifting, muttering, busy, easy, something. He’s not usually tense and miserable and so still. Merlin plays on his phone for a bit then sighs and puts on an audiobook, leaning his head back and giving in to his need to just watch over Arthur for a bit.  

By Sunday Arthur’s on the mend. Gaius’s doctor friend gave him something for the cough but otherwise had just shrugged and diagnosed flu, prescribed fluids and rest and called Gaius an old biddy and Merlin a very talented young man. Merlin and Gaius had both been pleased with their compliments. Arthur had been less pleased, the medicine tasting awful, but seeing as by Sunday he’s feeling better, he tells Gaius to let Alice know she’s forgiven.  

“I don’t want to sleep,” Arthur complains, stretched out on Merlin’s bed, eyes drooping with tiredness.  

“I know. You don’t have to,” Merlin says, pretending not to pay attention.  

“What else is there to do? You won’t let me get up.”

“You could play with my toes. You used to love that.”

Arthur snorts, wipes his nose on his sleeve, coughs for a while, then dozes off to snore away at Merlin’s side. Merlin starts actually looking at the laptop again and scrolls through another page of jobs he’s not suited to before clicking onto another site. He’s been applying for jobs since Friday and he’s found a few, but there’s just not much out there in the sector he wants.  

“Bugger this,” he mutters, and clicks over to Facebook to stalk his uni mates.  

Sometimes, serendipity happens in real life. It’s usually small things, but once in a while, something will happen that will feel like a miracle, though usually it is simply a coincidence. When Merlin stumbles across the information on Gwaine’s page that he’s looking for both a translator and magic user for his not-for-profit. Merlin spends the weekend trying to get in touch with him and by Thursday the next week, he has three interviews and a meeting with Gwaine.  

“How’re you feeling?” Merlin asks, Thursday morning, stretching and yawning.  

“Better,” Arthur answers, clearing his throat experimentally, “tired, cold, but mostly better.”

“Still got a job?”

“I rang last night and was told to go in Monday for a shift, so yes.”

“Good, because you’re paying for everything except the rent this month.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll manage.”

“Did I lose your job?”

“No. Well, no, not really. You were sick and I chose to stay here, so mostly I lost me my job.”

“Oh. Good. That was a bad job, now you can get a good one.”

Merlin wants to tell Arthur that the world doesn’t work that way, but two of the interviews he’s got lined up are for jobs he really likes the sound of, and he always liked Gwaine, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets Arthur believe what he wants.  


	2. Chapter 2

“…and so she said if I ever showed up on her doorstep again she’d throw a frying pan at my head! Which I feel is entirely unnecessary and-“

“Gwaine, if you’re coming in, come in.”

Gwaine grins at Merlin and pushes into the flat, kicking off his shoes. Merlin’s still in pyjamas, a soft grey t-shirt stretched over his muscled chest. He looks sleepy and good and warm. Gwaine shrugs out of his damp coat, tosses it on top of his trainers, and pulls Merlin into a hug.

“Morning,” he says, grinning wider, “you smell like sunshine.”

“I smell like sweat, get off.”

Merlin wriggles out of Gwaine’s arms and shuffles towards the kitchen. Gwaine senses coffee about to be brewed and follows, finishing telling Merlin about the woman.

“She said she was going to call the police,” Gwaine says, hoiking himself up onto the counter.

“Was this a dream?” Merlin asks, pulling out two mugs.

“Nope.”

“Why are you stalking women? That’s… just creepy.”

“I told you, I thought I knew her!”

“Still. Come on, I know you didn’t just stalk someone.”

Gwaine pouts, but Merlin just looks unimpressed so Gwaine admits to having made it up. Merlin gives him coffee anyway.  

“Is Arthur around today?” Gwaine asks, after gulping down half his cup.

“Probably?” Merlin says, looking around, as if Arthur will just pop into being.  

He doesn’t, but a cat with one black ear and a honey coloured coat of fur walks into the kitchen, leaping onto the counter next to Gwaine and cleaning a foot, looking for all the world as if they’re only allowed to exist by some whim of it’s own.  

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” Gwaine says.

“I don’t,” Merlin says, “oh. No, he’s just… kind of… um…”

“Okay, you can’t give me a hard time about stalking if you kidnap cats. Is he a Persian?”

“Dunno, dad found him in a gutter. Probably not, though. He’s probably a mix of everything under the sun.”

Gwaine would swear on everything he holds sacred that the cat glares at Merlin for that comment. He jumps down off the counter, anyway, and stalks out, tail and head held high.

“What’s he called?” Gwaine asks, slipping down to follow.  

“Arthur. Um… I mean… yeah.”

Gwaine laughs, flopping onto the sofa next to where the cat’s lying, sharing the wide bath of sunshine that’s filtering through the mostly open curtains. Merlin comes and opens them fully and the cat purrs, kneading Gwaine’s thigh with his front paws. Gwaine strokes over the head and scratches behind the ears, smiling when the cat headbutts him.

“It’s the colour, isn’t it?” Gwaine asks, “it’s just like Arthur’s hair. What does Arthur think of cat Arthur?”

“I… dunno? I think they get along okay,” Merlin says, half laughing at some private joke.  

Gwaine scoops the cat into his lap and settles into the cushions, giving the cat and his coffee all his attention. Merlin seems content to sit in silence so Gwaine allows himself to relax. He breathes easily for the first time this morning, relieved that he’s not going to have to make excuses about why he’s here. He feels something intense for Merlin for not asking, and he allow his fondness to bleed into his attention towards the cat, which makes him purr louder.  

“Bad morning?” Merlin asks, eventually.

“Shit,” Gwaine admits.

“Well, I need a shower, you’re welcome to stay. I was planning on making a fry up for breakfast.”

The cat suddenly leaps off Gwaine’s lap and runs from the room, making Merlin laugh loudly, again at some joke Gwaine doesn’t get. Gwaine accepts Merlin’s breakfast invitation and spreads himself over the sofa, closing his eyes, focusing on the sunshine and the sounds of Merlin getting himself up and not on the stupid idiotic little voice in the back of his head that he came here to banish. He scratches at the scars on his thigh, fingers itching, when Merlin takes a long time in the shower, and he’s about to get up to find himself a distraction, when someone walks into the room. Gwaine opens his eyes and smiles, going soft and relaxed again.  

“Arthur,” he says, tilting his head back to get a better look.  

“Morning,” Arthur says, smiling back.  

Arthur comes and sits on the floor by Gwaine’s head, reaching out to cradle his jaw in greeting. Arthur’s much more touchy feely than Merlin. He wouldn’t wriggle out of a cuddle. Gwaine rolls onto his side and they hug awkwardly but warmly. It’s nice, being in Arthur’s arms, and Gwaine sighs.  

“Did you do it?” Arthur asks, voice holding a tension that he’s kept admirably out of his body.  

“No,” Gwaine says, “haven’t for years. You know, the last time was that weekend we met.”

“Good impression you made.”

“Stop grumbling.”

Arthur moves so he can wrap a hand around Gwaine’s upper arm, thumb unnervingly finding scars there.  

“Hmph.”

“Anyway, I didn’t. I came here. Merlin was cross.”

“Merlin’s always cross before coffee.”

Arthur seems to accept Gwaine’s answer as truth. He lets go and waits for Gwaine to do the same before going to lie on the floor in front of the window, in the sun. He always does that, always finding the best sun-spots. Gwaine laughs, reminded of the cat.  

“Hey, what happened to cat Arthur?” Gwaine asks.

“Oh, you know,” Arthur says vaguely, “he probably went home.”

Gwaine decides not to ask. He thinks of his empty flat and the razor he left halfway through shaving, and the comparison between there and here makes him breath deep and easy again. They lie in silence, each enjoying his sun-spot, until Merlin emerges, wet and grumpy looking, complaining about the lack of hot water and demanding Arthur does breakfast. There’s a brief, good natured argument that ends with Arthur reminding Merlin of the last time he tried to make bacon and Merlin hurrying into the kitchen.  

“I set fire to the pan,” Arthur says, sounding pleased with himself.

“Of course you did,” Gwaine says, laughing.  

“Come on, we should probably at least get the table ready and make another pot of coffee for Merlin.”

Gwaine loves the morning routine here. He loves even more that both Arthur and Merlin are quite happy for him to integrate himself into it. He’d felt awkward for a while, showing up, but Merlin had demanded it of him and threatened to quit, and Gwaine’s pretty sure there’s not another magic user in the world who’s quite as good natured, humble and ready to just get stuck in as Merlin. And his French translations are impeccable. Also, Merlin comes with Arthur, and Arthur…

The first time they’d met it had been at a party. Arthur had taken one look at Gwaine, wrapped a hand over the red lines that ran across the top of his biceps at the time, and demanded who did it. When Gwaine had been unable to answer, Arthur had deduced the truth in a way that no one else had managed, tightened his grip, then looked at Gwaine in utter confusion, then had insisted that Gwaine dance with him the rest of the night. Then he’d gone out of his way to make friends, to drag Gwaine out for coffee or beer (though Arthur never drinks), introduced him to the people he knew, made friends with people in Gwaine’s office, and then he’d sat Gwaine down and made him talk about why.  

Merlin had been the one to get under everyone’s skin, the one who everyone loved because he was kind and funny and made them all stand up for themselves and look after themselves, and he was the one who’d made sure Gwaine had coping techniques and made sure Gwaine knew they could be added to those techniques. But Arthur was like something completely out of this world. He could be cruel, cutting, unthinking. He was arrogant, a little unimaginative and unobservant, annoying as hell. But somehow, along with all that, he was blindly loyal and trusting, and the way he cared for people was like a blazing sun, gathering everyone in.  

“Breakfast,” Merlin says, shortly, dumping things onto the table and drawing Gwaine back to the present.  

“Coffee,” Arthur says, imitating Merlin’s tone and mood, shoving a mug into Merlin’s hands.  

“I hate you,” Merlin says, gracefully falling into a chair and burying himself in his coffee.  

Arthur goes to get the rest of the food and then there’s silence as they all eat. Gwaine thinks that their mutual appreciation for a good fry up is what absolutely cemented their friendship. Merlin gets ketchup everywhere and spills his coffee, but by the time he’s done with food and is on his third cup, he’s in a better mood.  

It’s not until three weeks later that Gwaine ends up there again, this time on a Wednesday. It’s seven am and really too early, but as it’s a work day he figures someone will probably be up. He taps lightly, just in case, but Merlin answers almost at once. He looks surprised to see Gwaine, though. He takes the piece of toast that’s in his mouth out, opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it and waves Gwaine in.  

“Thought you were Arthur,” Merlin explains, shutting the door, “he left his keys. Alright?”

“Yeah. Weird month. Sorry.”

“You’re not usually this shite at looking after yourself. Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

Merlin sits him at the kitchen table and Gwaine sits through the chaos that is Merlin getting ready for work. He’s only been around for it twice before and it’s still a novelty, the way Merlin appears half dressed, then in one sock, then fully clothed, then half dressed again, shaved, in a hat but no shirt, fully dressed, then finally he sits down, only to jump up and go open the front door. Gwaine hears him hissing something and then there’s silence, and then Arthur peers round the door with a grin and a wave before vanishing. Gwaine, if it had been a good morning and he was certain of himself, would have sworn that a.) Arthur was naked and b.) he went into Merlin’s room.  

“Are you two dating?” he asks, stupidly, when Merlin reappears and settles down to a bowl of cereal.

“Who two?” Merlin mumbles, milk spilling down his chin.  

“Never mind,” Gwaine says.  

He asks Arthur, on Friday, when he comes to collect Merlin. Arthur looks at him for a moment, face still as if deep in thought, then he repeats the question, thinks again, then shakes his head with a slowly widening smile. ‘Just best friends’ is the outcome. Gwaine shrugs and invites them to go out on the Saturday.  

Merlin is a lightweight, and drunk by ten, Gwaine hasn’t drunk or been out in so long that he’s joined Merlin by eleven. Arthur drinks apple juice for a while, but then Gwaine manages to talk him into trying a vodka shot and after that he joins them in stupid laughter and tottering about the dance floor flailing. By half past midnight they’re slumped in a line on a padded bench, Merlin slurring a chat up line to the girl at his side and snorting at himself in amusement.  

“Let’s dance again,” Gwaine says, pulling Arthur up to his feet, “leave Merlin to… whatever that is.”

Arthur allows himself to be pulled, docile and limp, after Gwaine. The longer they dance, the closer they get, the closer they get, the fuzzier Gwaine feels, and then they’re face to face, breathing each other’s air, and Arthur’s eyes flutter shut, eyelashes long and beautiful against his pale cheek, Gwaine’s eye following the cheek, the jaw, to Arthur’s lips. And then they’re kissing.  

Gwaine wakes up to a desert dry mouth, a pounding head and an aching hip, and realises he’s slept on Merlin and Arthur’s livingroom floor. He crawls to the sofa and drags himself up, stumbling toward the bathroom. He freezes in the hallway when he hears voices from Merlin’s room, catching his name.  

“…idiot…” Merlin says.  

“I know!” Arthur replies.  

“…the music?”

“No. He just…”

“Accident?”

“How was I supposed to know? I never went into heat! You’re so…”

“…weird?”

Gwaine loses his balance and knocks into the wall, so he continues his stumble to the loo and when he comes out, Arthur and Merlin are silent. He goes back to sleep, on the sofa this time, and it’s not until later that he wonders about the ‘heat’ comment. He shrugs it off as some kind of in-joke or just weird Arthur-Merlin lingo. He has no idea what they were talking about. He forgets about the kiss.  He crashes out again, and when he wakes in the morning, life goes on as usual.

 

Until, that is, three weeks later. He’s at work, trying to get his brain to focus for more than three seconds so he can finish up for the day, when Merlin pelts by with a bucket of water. This isn’t unusual, Merlin’s magic is great and he’s trained, so he has control, but he does go overboard trying to be helpful sometimes. The wet cat that goes shooting past a few seconds later is less usual, and Arthur strolling into Gwaine’s office, from the same direction the cat vanished, hair wet but otherwise dry, Gwaine just blinks at him.

 

“Merlin’s busy,” Arthur says. “He made it rain by accident.”

 

“Oh,” Gwaine says. “Why did he need more water?”

 

“Water is an element. His magic is instinctual. Water is water, blah blah blah, I dunno. He had his hands stuck in it and was muttering,” Arthur says, closing the blinds on the glass door and wall, obscuring Gwaine’s view of the outer office and hallway. He comes and pulls out the visitor chair, sitting primly.

 

“How can I help you?” Gwaine asks. “I’m a bit busy.”

 

“I am an asexual person,” Arthur says, speaking as if he’s testing the words out. “We did the Google spiders, and found out.”

 

“What?” Gwaine says. “Never mind. Did you come in just to tell me that? Because that’s fine by me.”

 

“Yes. I’m ace, and I don’t want kisses or, or the rest.”

 

“Right. Good,” Gwaine says, staring at him in consternation. “Okay, then.”

 

“You kissed me,” Arthur says.

 

Gwaine’s mind spirals, trying to locate the memory, wondering if he’s having blank periods again. That would be bad. He doesn’t remember kissing Arthur, and he doesn’t remember wanting to kiss Arthur. He likes Arthur, a lot, he really really does. But there’s something about Arthur that is entirely, well, asexual. He’s lovely to look at, but Gwaine’s never thought to go further. Not really. Then he remembers how many times he’s been drunk and dancing at a club with Arthur, and relaxes, smiling.

 

“Don’t worry,” Gwaine says. “That’s just what happens, when people are drunk and dancing like that. I don’t even remember it.”

 

Arthur frowns, looking none-too-pleased about being forgotten.  Gwaine watches him, sort of amused- Arthur’s face shows a lot, sometimes. He’s so reserved and he seems to feel things weirdly sometimes, but then Gwaine will watch him and watch the emotions and thoughts flitting over his face. Or maybe he’s projecting or hallucinating. That’s possible too. Arthur goes from none-too-pleased, to thoughtful, touches his lips, then looks determined. Gwaine scoots back, but Arthur’s already around the desk. He moves like a big puma or something, lowering his center of gravity, fluid, graceful. He leans on the arms of Gwaine’s chair and grins, showing his teeth. The pointy ones are very pointy.

 

“I think you should remember,” Arthur says.

 

“Don’t kiss Gwaine,” Merlin says, barging in. “I’ve fixed the rain.”

 

“That rhymes,” Arthur says, straightening up. He ruffles Gwaine’s hair, instead of kissing him, looking down at him. “Are you coming with us to dinner?”

 

“Work,” Gwaine says, indicating the computer. Arthur looks, then scoffs.

 

“That’s not important. Not as important as food, anyway.”

 

“Do you even know what it is?” Merlin says.

 

Arthur looks affronted, and starts going through the financial report, finger hovering just over the screen to point out the elements he’s talking them through. Merlin gapes, but Gwaine thinks it’s quite useful. He stops Arthur, with a hand on his side. Arthur looks at him, pouting.

 

“No, you’re getting it right,” Gwaine says. “Did you do some kind of accountancy at uni?”

 

“Uni,” Arthur says, glancing Merlin’s way. Merlin mouths something. “Oh! School. No, I didn’t go. I’m learning at work. My boss is terrible at her accounts and she has an accountant who comes in and he tells me stuff, and then he told me about this free thing on the computer and a book.”

 

“I did not know any of that!” Merlin says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“I told you,” Arthur says. “Work is teaching me things.”

 

“That is not the same as ‘I’m learning accountancy’!” Merlin says.

 

“Shut up,” Gwaine says. “Can you do that, go over it and tell me about it? The whole thing? Do you know enough?”

 

“Mm. Context would help, but yeah,” Arthur says. “Why? Can I?”

 

“Yes,” Gwaine says. “Please. I can’t read it.”

 

Arthur takes that in stride, not asking any questions about why or how Gwaine’s got by in the past if he can’t. He just drags a chair around and shoves Gwaine over a bit, tilts the screen, and scrolls to the top. Gwaine tells him what the reports are from and why he’s reading them, and then sits back, listening to Arthur talk him through it. It’s much, much easier than reading it. Merlin hangs around for a few moments, then goes cross eyed over the numbers and buggers off. Gwaine takes notes.

 

“What do you do, Gwaine?” Arthur asks, when they’re done with the report.

 

“What? Thanks, that was really helpful.”

 

“Yeah, I can do it whenever, if I’m not at work, or- uh, otherwise engaged. What do you do? Merlin just said this is a not for profit. I read about that business structure in the accountancy book. What do you do? Who are you charitable toward?”

 

“Oh. Um,” Gwaine scratches his head, everything leaving it for a minute, his thoughts fleeing.

 

He had just been thinking he’d done enough work for the day and switched his brain to ‘food and relaxation’ mode, and he can’t quite make the connection for a minute. Arthur tucks up one leg, rests his head on his knee, and reaches out to touch Gwaine. He does that. He just encroaches on your space, to pat you on the shoulder, or tackle you, or give you a noogie or whack on the arm. Now he rubs Gwaine’s chest and then rests his hand on Gwaine’s shoulder, thumb rubbing gently over the bones. Gwaine isn’t sure if it’s to offer comfort, or just Arthur being Arthur and being curious and a bit weird. It is comforting, though. Gwaine sighs.

 

“We’re going for Chinese,” Arthur whispers, grinning, all teeth again. Then he laughs and slaps Gwaine’s shoulder. “You’re coming with us. Merlin can tell me about the stuff, it’ll be hilarious, he is horrible at being concise. Come on!”

 

Gwaine goes willingly, wondering if Arthur and Merlin will pay for him. They probably will. He has to return the ridiculous amount of online shopping he did, at some point. Or, you know, keep the weird things and cadge off Merlin and Arthur for nice things this month. He could totally do that. He’s pretty sure that he doesn’t need a giant stuffed unicorn, or the complete box set of 24, a show he’s never watched. Or the Downton Abbey one. Or the collection of weird kitchen things. Or the new wireless bluetooth speakers. Or the desk chair. He’s still thinking of the list when they reach the restaurant.

 

“Merlin, get take out,” Arthur says. “I’m going home. I’m taking Gwaine. Just get nice things.”

 

“What?” Gwaine says.

 

He’s already being towed away, though. Merlin waves them off, as if this is a regular occurrence. Gwaine supposes it probably is, with Arthur being Merlin’s best friend. They catch the bus the fifteen minute walk, which Gwaine doesn’t question as Arthur pays the fee. They also take the lift up to the flat, where Arthur often walks. Arthur pushes him onto the sofa and gets him tea and puts the TV on, then vanishes. Gwaine hears the shower go on and relaxes, shutting his eyes, letting Location, Location, Location drone on in the background, sipping his tea. He starts when the sofa sinks, but it’s just the golden cat. It gets into his lap and butts against his stomach until he strokes it, then starts up a loud purring. It’s an old cat, Gwaine realises, thin and with less hair than he thinks it probably had. It’s lovely, though, just sitting stroking it, the repetition, the cat’s simple pleasure. Gwaine sighs, melting into the sofa, his mind clicking off.

 

“Hey,” Merlin calls, a bit later. Gwaine hums in reply, and Merlin comes through with a big bag, in his socks. “Where’s Arth- oh!”

 

“The cat’s here,” Gwaine mumbles, smiling.

 

“The cat,” Merlin says, staring dumbly at it. “The cat came, did it? Why?”

 

“Shouldn’t it be inside?” Gwaine asks, holding onto it gently, hoping Merlin’s not going to take it away. “Arthur’s in the shower. He’s being ages, maybe he’s drowning himse-”

 

Gwaine stops, as the stupid phrase, the little cliched saying, the joke, seeps into his brain. Before he can stop himself he’s located the closest body of water deep enough, considered various heavy objects from his house, brought up the testimonies he’s read of near-drownings, the medical evidence about how hard it is to do, the things about how painful a way to die it is. Then he’s thinking about falling in, the bubbles, sinking, closing his eyes and being suspended in it. He shakes himself and pets the cat, and doesn’t think about Arthur in the shower. The cat helps by sinking its claws into Gwaine’s thigh, bringing him back to the real world. Merlin’s puttering around with plates and grumbling about water use and glaring, for some reason, at the cat. Gwaine pets it gently to make up for the glaring. He’s slumped quite a lot, and the cat’s shifted to sprawling over his chest, a little warm weight over his heart.

 

“Arthur’s gonna miss dinner,” Merlin says, mouth quirking. Nothing happens. Merlin says it a bit louder, then stares at the cat for a while. “Um, Gwaine?”

 

“Yeah?” Gwaine says.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Yes. Why?”

 

“Nothing, nothing. I’m gonna go… turn off the shower and get Arthur out. He really shouldn’t waste that much water.”

 

Gwaine nods, comfortable with the cat. And the food. He considers sitting up and getting himself a plate full, it smells awfully good. He’d have to move the cat, though. That’s solved, a second later, by the cat getting off him and going to the table, to sniff. Gwaine picks it up and puts it on the sofa, serves himself a plate. When he’s sat back he expects the cat to make another go at the table, but it doesn’t, it curls, pressed warm against his thigh, and lets him eat in peace. The front door bangs, then Merlin comes back, without Arthur.

 

“He’s popped out for a bit,” Merlin says.

 

“Oh. Okay,” Gwaine says, with a small pang of disappointment. He has the cat, and Merlin, and food, though, so.

 

“You’re staying over tonight,” Merlin says, serving himself. “We’ll pull out the sofa bed for you, and you can come into work on the bus with me, in the morning.”

 

“Okay,” Gwaine says.

 

Arthur doesn’t get back for ages. The cat stays until Gwaine starts getting restless, Merlin napping in the arm chair, food and dishes piled on the coffee table. It must be Gwaine’s shifting about that disturbs the cat. It wanders off, tail in the air. Five minutes later the door bangs, and then Arthur comes in, and slumps next to Gwaine, looking blissed out and happy.

 

“What happened to you?” Gwaine asks. Arthur grins lazily, head turning on the sofa.

 

“Massage,” Arthur says. “Forgot I had the appointment. Someone in the building. Food in the oven?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Want anything?”

 

“No.”

 

Arthur gets up. He really does move like a cat. Less a Puma than a haughty house cat, though. He comes back with a plate, sits on the floor, and plays around with the TV until an episode of Rugrats comes on.

 

“Oh, I like this one, with all the babies,” Arthur says. “And the stupid dog.”

 

“Did you watch it as a kid?”

 

“Um,” Arthur says, going cross eyed a moment. “I don’t think so? Merlin watched The Wild Thornberrys.”

 

“You’ve known Merlin that long?” Gwaine asks. “I don’t remember you, from school. Did you go somewhere else? Did you grow up in Ireland too?”

 

“Yeah,” Arthur says, smiling. “I liked Ireland. Though not the rain. That was a nice house.”

 

He fills his mouth, then, and doesn’t answer any of Gwaine’s questions. Gwaine decides he’s just enjoying being mysterious, and leaves it. Arthur doesn’t talk much about his childhood, Gwaine assumes either it wasn’t very fun, or really boring. Arthur comes in to go over reports with Gwaine a few times, responding to most of Gwaine’s requests with a positive answer. He’s good at it, picking up on what Gwaine needs him to do with just a few pointers. Gwaine wonders if he can actually hire Arthur as a PA at work, if he has enough work for him. Maybe if he fires his secretary, which he doesn’t want to do. He’s thinking about it, one afternoon, Arthur still there after completing what Gwaine asked of him, sprawled on the floor in a sunspot.

 

“Gwaine? You never told me what you do,” Arthur says.

 

“Right. Yeah. We work with the foster system and homeless charities, sort of facilitating, looking at housing, lobbying government, trying to make it easier on the kids coming out of care with no support. We currently do three things. The first is just the charities and care homes thing, co-ordinating care from multiple sources and seeing what’s missing, where there’s overlap, how to make it easier to access what’s on offer. Then we work with Shelter UK, to look at the housing on offer, which includes a small lobbying team, mostly working with local councils. And we do some minimal counselling, which we’re hoping to expand. We’re looking at youth clubs and colleges, schools, as partners.”

 

“That’s nice,” Arthur says. “My friend at work is a foster care kid.”

 

“I didn’t know you had friends who weren’t me or Merlin,” Gwaine says.

 

“I do,” Arthur says. “Do you want to meet him? For coffee. He might be interested in what you do, he gets frustrated. He volunteers with local foster kids, and he doesn’t like… things. I dunno.”

 

Gwaine agrees, and on Friday he’s introduced to Percival Jones. And sort of falls a little bit in love. A lot in love. He smiles, and he’s gentle and warm, and he laughs at Gwaine’s jokes and has no trouble when Gwaine makes jokes about his stupid head, just rolls with it. He also eats a pizza and a half and matches Gwaine beer for beer. Arthur sits quietly most of the evening, but when they’re done eating, he reaches over to Percy, giving his shoulder a squeeze to get his attention. Percy looks away from Gwaine, face softening to affection for Arthur.

 

“I’m going to head out,” Arthur says, leaning over to brush a kiss over Percy’s cheek. “Don’t let him bully you, Jones. He’s a nuisance.”

 

“Hey,” Gwaine protests, hand on his heart in wounded innocence. Percy laughs at him and ruffles Arthur’s hair.

 

“See you Monday, Arthur,” Percy says.

 

“Come sleep at ours if you get drunk, Gwaine,” Arthur says, stretching with a wide yawn.

 

They both watch him go, then catch each other smiling and laugh.

 

“He’s lovely,” Percy says.

 

“He is,” Gwaine agrees. “And a complete twat.”

 

“Oh, without a doubt,” Percy agrees.

 

Percy seems to think Arthur’s a foster kid, something about never mentioning parents and talking about his childhood as if he spent most of his time at other people’s houses. Gwaine supposes it sounds about right. It gets them talking about Gwaine’s work, and Gwaine agrees to look into what he can do locally. With business out of the way, and Arthur out of the way, Gwaine’s quiet for a bit, not sure what’s next. Usually he’d continue to get drunk, and maybe sleep with Percy. He’s Arthur’s friend, though, and Gwaine doesn’t want to make that awkward.

 

“Do you want to go get a drink?” Percy asks. “There’s a pub near.”

 

“Yes,” Gwaine says. Whatever it is Percy wants, he’ll take it. They walk, shoulders brushing, quiet still.

 

“I’ll just come out and say it,” Percy says. “I’m taking you for a drink with the view of taking you home, afterwards.”

 

“Awesome,” Gwaine says.

 

With that understanding things go more smoothly. They sit close at the bar, and Percy laughs a lot. They talk a bit, leaning close, breath on each other’s skin, to be heard. Percy buys the drinks, but stops before either of them are much more than buzzed, the huge amount of pizza soaking up a lot of the alcohol. Percy lives close, and holds Gwaine’s hand on the way back, pulling him close now and then for a kiss. It’s a good night, and when Gwaine wakes at Percy’s, he’s not too bothered. Percy doesn’t seem to be either. They eat breakfast in companionable quiet, then Percy goes to work, and that’s that. Gwaine meanders over to Merlin and Arthur’s, hoping for coffee. He gets coffee, and a bagel, and Merlin chattering away. After a bit, though, Arthur starts glowering.

 

“What?” Gwaine asks.

 

“You had sex with Percy,” Arthur accuses. And it is an accusation.

 

“Yes, I did,” Gwaine says. “It was lovely.”

 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, a faint note of warning there.

 

“You shouldn’t have,” Arthur says. “You were supposed to be friends. Now what? You can’t be friends if you have sex!”

 

“Why ever not?” Gwaine asks.

 

“Television,” Merlin says, darkly. “Arthur, I’ve talked to you about this. TV and life are different, and relationships on TV are not how people work. Especially if you watch Eastenders.”

 

“It was Emmerdale,” Arthur says, subsiding. He still glares a bit.

 

He seems mollified when, a week later, Percy and Gwaine are perfectly friendly and civil to one another, and when they continue to get coffee with him and get along fine. They don’t sleep together again, which Gwaine is fine with. He does like Percy, though, and he’s pretty sure Percy likes him. He texts after a month, suggesting coffee without Arthur, and Percy is enthusiastic. It takes ten minutes for Gwaine to realise Percy thinks it’s a date, and two seconds for Gwaine to decide that he’s okay with that and to decide that he’s going to think of it as a date, too. And then he has a boyfriend, and Arthur is sulky and resentful and viciously bitter about it.

 

Gwaine hadn’t really expected that. He’s seen Arthur’s sharp tongue before, the way he cuts people with words. He hasn’t been on the receiving end of it, though, and it’s not until he is that he realises quite how insightful Arthur can be. He tears at Gwaine’s insecurities and weak spots. He refuses to help Gwaine out at work, is always busy when Gwaine asks about getting a coffee or lunch, and when Gwaine’s at the flat, mostly to see Merlin these days, Arthur always absents himself. The cat Arthur is around a lot, and the animal, at least, still seems to be okay with Gwaine. Though it’s less likely to curl in Gwaine’s lap and purr without some persuasion, now.

 

“Why is he so angry?” Gwaine asks, Merlin, one Friday. He’s lying on the sofa, brain doing it’s annoying slow, depressed thing, cat curled up with him. He had lunch with Percy, and Percy had been almost in tears about something Arthur said at work. Percy hadn’t told Gwaine what was said, but he’d been genuinely upset, quiet and tired and upset.

 

“Dunno,” Merlin says. “I can’t fix it for you, you’ll have to sort it out yourself. Or, you don’t have to, you know. You don’t have to be friends with him when he’s being such a jerk.”

 

“I miss him being nice,” Gwaine says.

 

“Alright,” Merlin says, with a sigh, taking the cat from Gwaine. Gwaine protests. “Look, I will talk to you about this, but I’ll not talk to the cat. I have my reasons for this, okay?”

 

“Fine.”

 

Merlin puts the cat right out of the flat. It yowls and scratches and hisses to come back in, then goes away. Merlin comes back to the living-room and sits on the floor.

 

“You know that at work they treat him as if he has developmental problems?” Merlin says.

 

“I guess. I assumed he did,” Gwaine admits.

 

“Yeah, well, he sort of does. Effectively. It’s just to say that he doesn’t understand, at all,” Merlin says. “At all. I haven’t dated anyone, really, not seriously, since he came to live with me, and I don’t think he’s really come across it except on TV, in books, on the internet. He’s started reading Star Trek fanfiction, too, so his best model is Spock and Kirk.”

 

“Goodo,” Gwaine says. “I don’t see why that means he’s mean, and doesn’t understand. What doesn’t he understand? I like Percy, a lot.”

 

“Yeah. Arthur knows that. That much he understands. Percy is your partner, your boyfriend, the person you love. Most things suggest you have one of those. Percy is also the person you have sex with. Arthur doesn’t want sex, and knows that you do. He knows that you only love one person. That person is Percy. I don’t think he really understands this, but he’s jealous, and hurt that you picked Percy and not him, and scared that your life won’t include him much anymore. And he’s Arthur, so when he’s hurt, he lashes out.”

 

“He’s so mean,” Gwaine says.

 

“I know. He’s not being particularly nice to me, either. There are other things going on, as well. He’s not very happy at the moment, aside from this stuff with you. His two friends are busy with each other, Percy got a promotion at work and a pay rise and more hours, which means Arthur has less. His boss knows that we don’t need the money, and Percy does. He no longer has his job with you, which he counted as a job.  And he’s unhappy about something in my life.”

 

“You’re not sharing?”

 

“It’s a painful thing, not something I want to talk about. You said you wanted to know why, so I’ve told you. I would keep it to yourself if I were you, Arthur probably won’t be happy we’ve been talking about him. And please, don’t share it with Percy.”

 

“Alright. There’s more, isn’t there?”

 

“Always. But that’s enough, for now. I think you should go to Percy’s, or home, if you don’t mind. You’re always welcome here, you know that, but I think Arthur could use me, tonight. He’s still my friend,” Merlin says.

 

“Okay.”

 

Gwaine goes to Percy’s, and complains about Merlin being sympathetic to Arthur. Percy nods along. He’s still upset about whatever Arthur said. He sits with Gwaine between his knees, quiet. Just listening. So Gwaine babbles on, and cries a bit, and is a little bit pathetic.

 

“He’s hurt,” Percy says, at last. “He’s just… hurt. He’s like a child, sometimes. In this.”

 

“He’s not a child, he’s a grown man,” Gwaine says, irritated.

 

“Yes. I said he’s like a child. He’s reacting like a child.”

 

A week later, Percy and Arthur have made up. Gwaine’s brain has slumped to a horrible low. He takes a week off work and shuts himself in his flat, letting himself nest, doing nothing at all. Percy comes round a few times, but mostly leaves him alone, a bit bewildered by the mess of Gwaine’s home, which is usually quite pristine and organised. Gwaine doesn’t bother with explanations, just mumbles something about bipolar. Merlin comes on Friday and helps him clean up a bit, does a load of laundry, and leaves him food. He comes back on Sunday, Arthur in tow. Gwaine’s feeling better, after spending Saturday re-balancing himself, doing CBT and getting things organised again. He also took a sleeping pill to get some proper rest. Merlin vanishes into the kitchen to cook him something ‘hearty and healthy’, and Gwaine’s left in the living-room, with Arthur.

 

“Hi,” Arthur says, lying curled on the floor.

 

“You look about as well as I felt on Monday,” Gwaine says, which gets him a glare.

 

“I’m sick,” Arthur says. “It’s Merlin’s fault.”

 

“It’s not my fault!” Merlin calls cheerfully from the kitchen. “He’s not sick! He’s sulking!”

 

Arthur hisses, and gets to his feet, padding to the kitchen. There’s a yelp from Merlin, then laughter.

 

“A teaspoon, Arthur, really?” Merlin says.

 

There’s another yelp, then Arthur comes back, throwing himself into the armchair. Merlin follows him with a cut up avocado on a plate, some crisps in a bowl, a pot of salsa dip. He gives Arthur’s head an absent pat on his way past back to the kitchen.

 

“You’re fat,” Arthur says, when Gwaine reaches for a handful of crisps. Gwaine pauses, then takes the crisps anyway.

 

“Alright,” he says, leaning for the dip.

 

Arthur snatches it away, and the crisps. Gwaine takes some avocado instead, deciding to ignore Arthur. If he _was_ a child, Gwaine would deal with it by ignoring the behaviour.

 

“You have spots,” Arthur says.

 

“Mm. Personal comments are odious,” Gwaine says. “Do you want the TV on?”

 

“No,” Arthur says.

 

At least the comments are just rude, not cutting. Though Gwaine is a bit thrown by the comments on his appearance. He used to have self image fuckery in his head. He’s surprised by how little he’s thrown, though. Three years ago it would have hurt like hell. Now, though, he can smile and forget it. It’s not going to worm it’s way into him. Not anymore. He thinks of Percy, Percy’s hands over his body, over his scars, worshipping, and smiles wider.

 

“I’m going to pop out, you have no cheese Gwaine,” Merlin says. “I’ll be ten minutes. Are you coming, Arthur?”

 

“No,” Arthur snaps, glaring, curled protectively around the crisps and dip. Merlin frowns, and goes to push the hair off Arthur’s forehead. Arthur’s glare turns into a rueful look. “I’ll stay. I’ll remember what I told you.”

 

“Good. I’ll be back soon,” Merlin says. The door closes a minute later.

 

“What did you tell Merlin?” Gwaine asks.

 

“None of your business,” Arthur grumbles, but without bite. He sighs. “I have been told I have been being an arsehole. By Percy. And Merlin. And everyone.”

 

“Complete and utter arsehole,” Gwaine agrees, keeping it light.

 

He’s not really in the mood to negotiate this right now, today was supposed to be a gentle day. But, Arthur’s right there, and it seems it’s happening right now, so he goes with it.

 

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I thought you liked me.”

 

“I do,” Gwaine says. “Neither of us wanted that from each other, though. We’re friends.”

 

“I know,” Arthur says. “I’m always going to be just ‘friends’ with people, even if I like them.”

 

“Doesn’t mean you get to be so horrible,” Gwaine says. “If you are, you won’t have many friends left.”

 

“I don’t have many to begin with,” Arthur says.

 

“Stop being so self pitying,” Gwaine says. “I’m not feeling very sympathetic.”

 

Arthur nods, and is silent through the rest of the bowl of crisps. He doesn’t apologise, and he doesn’t offer to share the food. When Merlin gets back, Arthur goes into the kitchen with him. Gwaine, frustrated, follows.

 

“Aren’t you going to say sorry? Or ask how I’m feeling? If I’m okay? Anything? Or are we only talking about you?” Gwaine says, loud and belligerent.

 

“Okay. I’m sorry. How are you feeling, are you okay?” Arthur says, not turning.

 

“Fuck you,” Gwaine says. “ _Fuck_ you. I’ve just been ill all fucking week, and I’m not in the mood.”

 

“I asked what you wanted,” Arthur says, turning, and he looks genuinely confused. “I just hadn’t thought of it. Merlin told me you were ill, and away from work. I felt… bad. About that.”

 

“About me being ill,” Gwaine says, dully.

 

“Yes,” Arthur says. “I thought maybe it was because I stopped coming to help when you were… feeling… bad.”

 

“No, it just happens,” Gwaine says. “It’s my life.”

 

“Part of the,” Arthur wraps his hand around his own arm, where Gwaine’s scars are. “And the, the,” Arthur taps his head.

 

“Bipolar,” Gwaine says. “Yes.”

 

“Two poles,” Arthur says. “I think you have more than two. I am sorry, I thought you were… I felt that you were being cruel to _me_.”

 

“What? How on earth was I cruel?” Gwaine asks.

 

“Well, you kissed me. You were nice to me. And then you kissed Percy, and were nice to him. Instead.”

 

“As well,” Merlin says.

 

“I didn’t like you very much for that,” Arthur says. “I shouldn’t have… I should not have, have, acted. On those… feelings. Is that right, Merlin?”

 

“Your words are fine,” Merlin says. “This is nearly done. Are you two nearly done?”

 

“I’m done,” Gwaine says, realising it’s true. “I don’t want this. I can’t deal with you being like this, blowing hot and cold. I understand that it’s something that you didn’t do on purpose, and that you didn’t mean to hurt me, but I’m not well enough to deal with it. With you being emotional, and not being very nice. I like you, both of you, but I think I’m going to take a step back from this.”

 

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Merlin said that might happen. And when it does, I need to… be okay with it.”

 

Arthur shuts his eyes, and Merlin finally gives them both his attention, a smile of understanding and acceptance for Gwaine, a hand in the small of the back for Arthur.

 

“We’ll leave you to your meal,” Merlin says.

 

“I’m not okay with it,” Arthur mutters, to Merlin. “What if he needs us? What about us being friends? What about him? I want him to be okay. I didn’t mean it.”

 

Gwaine realises that Arthur doesn’t know he can hear. He’s agitated, head bent close to Merlin. He’s all energy and jitters.

 

“Arthur, hush, calm down. Let’s go to the car, and go home,” Merlin says.

 

“I didn’t mean those things, they were what he thought, it’s not like I made it up, I didn’t mean to hurt him. Percy forgave me. I think he should, too, I want to be friends with him, I like him. He’s a person I like. He’s my person, he’s not supposed to leave me, he’s my person,” Arthur says, voice rising.

 

“Car,” Merlin says, more urgently. “Now.”

 

“He’s my person,” Arthur hisses, turning on Merlin.

 

There’s a thrum of gold light, and then the cat Arthur lands on his four feet, and comes at Gwaine, leaping, claws extending into his jeans. Gwaine yelps, and lifts the cat automatically. He looks at the cat, looks at Merlin. The cat hisses and spits at Merlin, then butts against Gwaine’s chest, purring. Gwaine stares at the fur, then stares at Merlin, then drops the cat. It lands on all fours, twines itself around Gwaine’s legs, then stalks over to Merlin, sitting and cleaning it’s fur. Merlin has a hand over his eyes. Gwaine realises he’s laughing, hysterically.

 

“You turned Arthur into a cat,” Gwaine says, staring at the two of them.

 

“Oh no,” Merlin says, gasping around his laughter, getting a semblance of control. “Uh-uh. No. He turned himself. And he turned into a human. You got it the wrong way around.”

 

“What??”

 

“He was my kitten. He got old, I wanted him to live. I gave him a suggested shape, and he took it. He lived. Human and cat, and a big dollop of my magic, he’s pretty ageless now.”

 

“Suggested a shape,” Gwaine says.

 

“Yep. Most living things have more than one shape, if you suggest it, and you’re powerful enough, and they want it, poof.”

 

“Arthur’s a cat,” Gwaine says.

 

“Yep,” Merlin says. “And he is still learning how to be a human.”

 

“He’s a cat.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I kissed him. I kissed a bloody cat. Oh my god, I kissed a cat!”

 

Gwaine goes to the sink and turns on the tap, sticking his mouth under the water, trying to wash his tongue. The cat butts against his ankle, purring.

 

“You kissed Arthur,” Merlin says. “He’s mostly human, when he’s human. DNA wise he’s entirely human.”

 

“Right,” Gwaine says, turning off the tap and turning. “Right. Stupid reaction. You do realise that this is a weird blurring of reality and I’m not entirely sure if it’s real?”

 

“Yeah,” Merlin says. “To be honest, I nearly told you, when Arthur started being more cat and struggling with the complexities of human emotions again. When you started dating Percy, I mean.”

 

“Did you tell Percy?”

 

“Yes,” Merlin says. “Arthur told him. Percy punched him.”

 

“My reaction was better.”

 

“Yes. Arthur didn’t mind. They fought, Arthur turned into a cat and ran away, Percy coaxed him back with fish, and when Arthur was a person again, they were friends. Percy’s complicated, but he’s got a lot of emotional intelligence.”

 

“And I don’t?” Gwaine says.

 

“Not so much,” Merlin says, scrunching up his face, laughing. “No, you do, but your emotions are a bit whacky sometimes.”

 

“True,” Gwaine concedes. “Is he going to stay a cat?”

 

“I have no idea. You heard him- you’re his person. I wanted to take him away. The vet used to take him away from me, and he used to try and claw the vet to shreds.”

 

“You’re not shreds.”

 

“Nope. I’m his person, too,” Merlin says, smiling.

 

“His person.”

 

“He used to call us pets,” Merlin says. “This is much better. He’s got better at human stuff, but the way he forms relationships is always gonna be different. His attachment to us is still half cat.”

 

“Yeah. Cats get angry and scratchy when you change things. Like getting a new partner.”

 

“You don’t have to change what you said, I’ll take him home, we’ll talk, he’ll be fine,” Merlin says.

 

“No. I can’t deal with him being emotionally unstable, but he’s not emotionally unstable. He’s a cat. I assume that it’s not going to happen again, now that he knows that’s not a reaction that’s acceptable.”

 

“Likely not,” Merlin says.

 

“That’s fine, then,” Gwaine says. “I have tuna, in the fridge. He can eat it. I’m gonna have pasta bake.”

 

Merlin sticks around the rest of the afternoon, and so does the cat. Gwaine’s almost certain that Arthur stays a cat out of embarrassment. He’s a man again, when Gwaine goes to visit after work on Thursday. They talk, and then they talk more, and then more. Over the next month they rebuild a tentative trust, and after two, Gwaine’s secretary quits and Gwaine offers Arthur the job, adjusting the parameters. Arthur accepts.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Lance is half an hour early, for his first day of work. The magician, the only employee currently there, gives him an odd look then shows him where to make coffee. And, in the magician’s case, porridge.

 

“Merlin,” the man says, holding out a hand over the tiny rickety table in the kitchen area, where he’s sat. Lance perches on the unstable stool opposite, and takes his hand.

 

“Lancelot du Lac, I’m starting today, in HR. I’m early.”

 

“Yes, yes you are. No one here is early. People are rarely on time.”

 

“You’re here,” Lance points out.

 

Merlin snorts, but a cat comes prowling in before he can explain his earliness. Merlin gets up and fetches an animal bowl with something fishy smelling, which he sets on the floor. The cat hunkers down and tucks in, and Merlin sits again, too.

 

“You have an office cat,” Lance says, smiling. “That is a good sign.”

 

“It’s his fault I’m early,” Merlin says, nudging the cat with a socked foot, his shoes slipped off under the table. The cat sinks claws into Merlin’s foot, then carries on eating. Merlin just laughs, retracting his foot. “He’s a bad tempered bag of hissing and claws, but he’s okay. He’s around sometimes, he kind of comes and goes.”

 

“Does he have a name?”

 

“Gwaine calls him Princess,” Merlin says, grinning about it for some reason.

 

“Gwaine?” Lance asks.

 

“Green, your boss. What are you doing in HR?”

 

“Admin,” Lance says. The cat’s finished eating, so he clicks his tongue and pats his knee. “Come on up here, Princess.”

 

The cat leaps up and curls in his lap, and Lance sits back. Merlin snorts.

 

“Everyone likes him. It’s ridiculous,” Merlin says.

 

“He’s nice,” Lance says. “He’s old?”

 

“Older than you’d ever imagine,” Merlin says. “About twenty.”

 

Lance laughs, assuming that’s some sort of joke. Merlin seems nice, if a little odd, but it’s ten minutes to the hour, so Lance finishes his coffee, gives the cat a scritch behind the ears, and gets up to meet his boss. Mr. Green quickly becomes Gwaine, and Lance is passed over to the secretary, who is introduced just as ‘Arthur’. Arthur shows him around the office. It’s small, just Merlin, Gwaine, a couple of people running campaigns and volunteer teams who aren’t in much, and the HR/admin team. Which is comprised solely of a woman called Mithian, calm and competent and seemingly fond of Arthur. When they come in, she clears space for them both.

 

“Arthur’ll sit through your induction,” Mithian says. “He’s supposed to have been inducted to my department himself, but Gwaine’s a bloody fool so Arthur just got the Gwaine Green Crash Course.”

 

“I’m very good, I do fine,” Arthur says. “Let’s get started, I want to go to lunch with Merlin. He’s going for sushi.”

 

“That’s Arthur’s favourite. You’ll learn quickly,” Mithian says, and then they get to work.

 

They do get out in time for lunch, but only just. Arthur sprints through the offices to Merlin’s office and bangs on the door, laughing. Merlin comes out, eyebrow raised.

 

“You look like Gaius,” Arthur says, hugging Merlin.

 

“You’re… enthusiastic,” Merlin says .

 

“Sushi!” Arthur says.

 

“Oh, I forgot. I got caught up doing translations of the outreach info Jack’s team wants for the schools, with the refugee kids,” Merlin says. “Give me twenty minutes?”

 

“God, fine,” Arthur says. “We’re taking Lance. We’ll get coffee and stuff.”

 

They sit in the kitchen again, and Arthur does the crossword. Lance eats the apple from his packed lunch, and debates eating the sandwiches, too. He texts Gwen to tell zir about his first day, and Gwen texts back with a picture of Morgana, holding up an onion with the caption ‘up someones arse’. Morgana’s wearing gloves. Lance tries to cover his laughter, but Arthur makes an enquiring kind of sound.

 

“My partner’s a sexual health nurse,” Lance says. “Zir colleague found an onion up someone’s arse.”

 

“Someone put a onion in their bum?” Arthur asks. “Why?”

 

“I dunno. People do all sorts of things,” Lance says. “They stick lots of things up there.”

 

Merlin comes wandering in, then, a jacket over his arm.

 

“Merlin,” Arthur says. “Have you ever got an onion stuck up your arse?”

 

“Nope,” Merlin says, linking arms with Arthur. “Are you talking about sex at work again?”

 

“Lancelot was. His friend works as a sex nurse and sent him a picture of the onion. Come on, Lancelot, sushi,” Arthur says.

 

Merlin explains about Arthur being ace, and Lance laughs, telling him some more stories from Gwen’s work. Arthur gapes at him, all through lunch, and most of the afternoon. He whispers random objects to Lance through the rest of the training, and Lance nods or shakes his head, if Gwen has or has not extracted such a thing from someone. It’s the funniest induction Lance has ever been subjected to, especially when Mithian gives them both some work to try them out on the forms she just explains, and hands out pens. Arthur takes his hesitantly, looking at it.

 

“Mithian,” he says, slowly.

 

“Yes?” Mithian says, spinning her chair away from them.

 

“I have an unprofessional and… what’s the word… inappropriate question,” Arthur says. “Can I ask it?”

 

“Judging by the whispering and giggling you’ve been doing? No. I don’t think so,” Mithian says.

 

Arthur nods, and gets up. He comes back with the pen wrapped in kitchen roll, drying it. Lance tells Gwen about it, when they both get home, and ze giggles a lot and demands to meet Arthur. Which is how Arthur and Merlin end up at Lance and Gwen’s, on Saturday, for dinner. Merlin sits on the sofa and pulls out a lumpy mess of wool and knitting needles. Arthur sits on the floor at his feet, accepts the wine Gwen offers him, then nudges Merlin.

 

“Merls? Gwen offered you a drink? Are you gonna answer zir?” Arthur says.

 

Gwen beams at him for getting zir pronouns right, and Arthur has made a friend. Lance keeps his fond smile inside and watches Gwen as ze moves around the room, getting snacks and wine, as ze sits next to Merlin and promises to get Morgana over to help him with the knitting, asze talks to Arthur about fish, Arthur’s head back on the sofa cushions between zir and Merlin’s knees. He’s still watching zir when Morgana comes in the French windows, takes one look at the mess Merlin’s creating, and walks back out.

 

“Oh dear,” Merlin says, frowning at his knitting. “I thought I was getting the hang of it.”

 

“That was very rude,” Arthur says, getting to his feet and stalking after Morgana, pulling off his socks before vanishing into the night.

 

Lance and Gwen exchange a look. Morgana’s not a very patient person, and Arthur seems the sort to set her off. They come back together, though, Arthur carrying Morgana’s knitting bag, looking very pleased. Morgana sits between Gwen and Merlin, and makes Merlin undo the knitting and start again, under her careful instruction. Arthur watches on, looking very pleased with himself. It’s sort of the way Lance has been watching Gwen. Lance wonders about that. And then Merlin drops his wool and the ball goes rolling over the wood floor, and Arthur pounces, skidding along, and tussles it, like a kitten.

 

“Arthur!” Merlin says.

 

“You need one of these,” Morgana says, showing the bag she uses for her wool. “See, you can pull the top shut. The wool’s threaded through the eyelet here, and it doesn’t escape.”

 

“Where do I get one?” Merlin asks, tugging on the wool.

 

Arthur lets go, and then jumps on it, then brings the ball to Merlin, sitting on the ground between his knees, holding the wool.

 

“I made it,” Morgana says. “If I get the time, and if you want to keep doing this, I might make you one.”

 

“I want one,” Arthur says, tipping his head back again.

 

“You don’t knit,” Morgana says. “And I refuse to teach you.”

 

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Can I have your wool?”

 

“No,” Morgana says.

 

She gives him a ball she’s not using, though, and Arthur holds onto that and Merlin’s, until dinner time. Lance finds that he enjoys Arthur’s company, but there’s something reserved about him, something hidden. Lance sort of prefers Merlin, who’s open and friendly and, as Gwen puts it, entirely and utterly and ridiculously adorable. Something about that inane grin and the big ears. Lance seeks out Merlin’s company at work, enjoying it, finding it easy. They go for coffee, and lunch, and sit in the break room. Arthur sometimes tags along.

 

Merlin’s quite a chaotic person, Lance soon learns. There are fires and water accidents and all kinds of crazy going on, when Merlin’s doing work with magic. He wanders around with his hair silver for an entire day. He rarely wears shoes around the office, and his socks sometimes change colour. When he’s translating Lance breaths a sigh of relief, the imminent threat of explosion lessening. It’s not much better, though. Merlin gets bored and itchy when he’s translating, and that means getting into various kinds of trouble, usually with Arthur. Or with the cat who hangs around. Lance finds Merlin, balanced on a stool in the kitchen, the cat held above his head, one day.

 

“What are you doing?” Lance asks, leaning in the doorway.

 

Merlin shrieks, and teeters on the stool, dropping the cat. It lands on his head and Merlin yelps, jumping down and shaking his head until the cat lets go, hissing, tail between it’s legs, scittering at the doorway. Merlin shouts a warning, but Lance doesn’t move and the cat scrambles up his jeans, claws out. Lance plucks it up and holds it against his chest, stroking soothingly over its back.

 

“What was Merlin doing to you, Princess?” Lance says, clucking his tongue gently.

 

“Stupid cat,” Merlin grumbles. “I was trying to reach Mithian’s stash of chocolate. I’m sure she’s hiding it on top of the cupboards. I was gonna climb on the counter, but Arth- then the cat came along and I thought I’d put it up there.”

 

“Poor thing,” Lance says.

 

“Yeah, I know, he clawed my head!” Merlin says.

 

“I meant Princess, not you,” Lance says.

He makes his coffee one-handed, keeping hold of Princess, and takes him back to the office. Mithian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t protest. Lance works the afternoon away with Princess purring in his lap. It’s nice, homey. He’s pretty settled into the office, by now, and is finding most things around here homey. Gwaine comes in most afternoons, to talk volunteers with Mithian, which is now her job. Generating and coordinating the admin for the volunteer teams. Lance covers the office side of things, and the paid employees. Gwaine wanders down about four, that afternoon.

 

“Have you seen Arthur? Oh,” Gwaine says. “Hi, Princess. Stupid cat, you’re supposed- Lance, I’m confiscating your thigh warmer. Could I have the file on the new volunteers for the school thing?”

 

Mithian hands it over without looking. Gwaine tucks it under his arm, and holds out his hands for the cat. Lance gives Princess a last scritch and, regretfully, gives him up. He can hear Gwaine muttering at the cat about his misplaced secretary. He’s sure that Gwaine calls the cat ‘Arthur’ more than once.

 

“Do you like Princess, Arthur?” Lance asks, the next day, when he finds Arthur in the kitchen making something in the microwave.

 

“Huh?” Arthur says, gazing into the fogged door, watching whatever it is going round and round in there.

 

“The cat. I’ve never seen you with him, and I’d have thought you’d be the type to steal it and hide somewhere,” Lance says, putting on the kettle and settling against the counter, biting into his apple.

 

“I dunno. It’s a stupid name. What cat wants to be called Princess?” Arthur says.

 

“Because it’s a boy? Not like it really matters,” Lance says. “Cats don’t have gender.”

 

“What?” Arthur says straightening up. “Of course we do. I mean cats do. Just not stupid gender, like humans.”

 

“Right,” Lance says. “Why is it a stupid name, then?”

 

“Because Gwaine thought of it,” Arthur says. “Gwaine’s a potato.”

 

“I see,” Lance says.

 

The microwave dings, and Arthur wanders off, pausing to give Lance a pat on the chest. Lance would swear that Arthur was going to butt his shoulder, like the cat does. Twenty minutes later the cat comes in and butts at Lance’s ankles until he picks it up, then it butts into his shoulder, purring loudly. Lance looks at the cat, the colour of its fur, and laughs so hard he nearly falls over. He has no idea how, or why, or who knows, or what’s going on, really, but he’s pretty sure Arthur’s a cat. Or Princess is a human. Or some merging of the two of those.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gwen says, padding about in zir pyjamas, looking for ice cream to put on zir pie.

 

“Well, Merlin’s a magician, and why not?” Lance says, waiting for ze on the sofa. They’re watching Doctor Who, or were until Gwen decided ze needed dessert. Now it’s paused, David Tennant’s bum facing the camera. Gwen had liked that.

 

“Because. Cats are cats, and people are people,” Gwen says. “I’d have come across that. At uni we learned about people with dragon blood, or wyvern blood, magical creatures. Those creatures could shift their shape. But a common house cat?”

 

“Don’t let Arthur hear you calling him common,” Lance says. “He’ll take against you and not let you pet him.”

 

“Lance, he’s not a cat,” Gwen says. “Magical creatures can shift because of the amount of magic in them, and even then it takes a magician working with them, suggesting the shape, to do it.”

 

“Merlin’s powerful. He could do it,” Lance says. “I told you I didn’t know how. I’m certain, though.”

 

Lance gathers proof for Gwen, over the next week. Arthur and Princess both like fish a ridiculous amount, Lance records a short video of Arthur eating tuna out of the tin. Then there’s the hair. He takes a photo of each for comparison. Then there’s the way Arthur moves. Another video for that. And the personal space thing, and the way Merlin talks about Arthur, and Arthur accidentally identifying himself with the cat again, and Gwaine confiscating the cat from Lance when looking for Arthur. And then there’s the never seeming them in the same room thing. On Friday, Arthur comes in with a stinking cold. Lance is up at Gwaine’s office, dropping off a file with diversity and equality info for a report Gawine wants drawn up. He passes it to Arthur, opening his mouth to explain. Arthur holds up a hand, and sneezes. Four times. Little hissing cattish sneezes

 

“Bless you,” Lance says. “Numbers for Gwaine.”

 

“Equality thing?” Arthur says, congested and thick, blinking up at Lance through watery eyes.

 

“Yes. Do you have a cold? Are you going to give it to the rest of us?” Lance says .

 

“Don’t think I can be contagious to you. Merlin doesn’t think so, anyway,” Arthur says, tugging sharply at the tissues sat on his desk and burying himself in them for a violent sneezing fit.

 

“Bless! You sound awful,” Lance says, walking around the desk to feel Arthur’s forehead. “You feel warm, are you feverish?”

 

“Don’t think so,” Arthur says, blowing his nose and tossing the tissues in the fast-filling bin. “I’m alright. Do you need anything?”

 

“No, just dropping that. I’ll make you some tea with honey, and see if anyone has some paracetamol. I think you do have a fever,” Lance says.

 

Arthur doesn’t protest, so Lance bustles around with those things. He gets Arthur a bowl of soup from the canteen downstairs, that serves all the offices in the building, and a mug of hot sweet tea, and a fresh box of tissues, and paracetamol. Arthur stares at it all, then blinks at Lance for a long time before thanking him profusely. Lance goes to Merlin’s office and taps on the door. Merlin’s translating today so it’s mostly safe to step inside.

 

“Arthur’s ill,” Lance says, without preamble.

 

“I know, he insists he’s fine to work and I don’t think he’s contagious,” Merlin says, not looking up.

 

“I got him tea and soup, he looked at me like I was odd,” Lance says.

 

“Yes. He likes being looked after, but only expects it when he demands it of you. When you do it off your own initiative, he doesn’t know how you thought of it. Especially if it’s what he wanted, and you did it without him vocalising it. He’s weird. Do you want something, or are you here to talk about my weird housemate?” Merlin says. “If it’s the latter, I’m busy.”

 

Lance leaves him alone. He checks on Arthur again before returning to work, though. He’s writing out an email when Princess comes in, and Lance laughs, because there is no way that cat is anyone except Arthur. It’s as bedraggled looking as Arthur had been, and sneezes, the exact same sneezes as Arthur. Lance pats his thigh and Princess jumps up, curling in his lap. Lance gives him a scritch and a pat, then waits for Mithian to go on a coffee run.

 

“Hello, Arthur,” Lance whispers. “Do you feel better, as a cat?”

 

Suddenly, and rather shockingly, Lance has a lapfull of naked Arthur, instead of cat. Arthur looks alarmed, jumps to his feet, trips over, and lands in a pile on the floor, sneezing several times. Lance steps over him and shuts and locks the door, drawing the blinds. He waits for Arthur to stop sneezing.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Lance says .

 

“How did you know? Did Merlin tell?” Arthur asks. “Or Gwaine? It was Gwaine, wasn’t it?”

 

“No, I just guessed,” Lance says. “Do you have clothes?”

 

Arthur goes to the filing draws and pulls open the bottom on that’s always locked. Folded neatly inside is a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. And socks. Arthur pulls them on, then wraps his arms around himself, coughing.

 

“Sit down,” Lance says. “You should be at home, as sick as that.”

 

“I know,” Arthur says. “I don’t want to admit to Merlin that he was right, though.”

 

“He knows,” Lance says.

 

“Yeah,” Arthur says.

 

“Come on, I’ll drive you. You can turn into a cat and sleep.”

 

“It’s actually worse, as  cat. Cats don’t get human colds. There’s less space for the snot. Merlin says that’s ridiculous but it feels that way, so shut up Merlin.”

 

Lance takes Arthur home, and sends a triumphant text to Gwen. Then tells Arthur, with much contrition, that he told Gwen. Arthur just waves acknowledgment from where he’s curled on the sofa. Lance goes back to work and invades Merlin’s office again. Merlin’s already gathering his stuff.

 

“Gwaine said you took Arthur home,” Merlin says. “I’m going.”

 

“Thought I’d make the suggestion,” Lance says.

 

“Yeah. Thanks. Is he still running a fever?”

 

“I think so.”

 

Merlin nods, shoves the last of his stuff into his backpack, and leaves at a jog, waving to Lance. Lance spends Saturday evening with Arthur. He takes a flask of soup from Gwen, and makes lemon and honey, and brings ice cream. Arthur’s eyes are red and swollen, sinuses congested, chest thick. He lies happily enough on the sofa with his offerings, though, and Lance sits on the floor, telling him about Gwen’s weirdnesses at work from yesterday. Merlin’s out, doing something or other. Maybe social. Probably not, knowing Merlin.

 

“Do you know about poetry, Lancelot?” Arthur croaks, interrupting an anecdote about a woman who though she was pregnant because she had had jam in her tea, which she thought probably counted as a craving.

 

“Poetry?” Lance asks, taken aback. “No, not really. Why on earth?”

 

“Hunith likes it,” Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can your head explode from snot?”

 

“Don’t think so. Hunith?”

 

“Merlin’s Mum. I’m gonna sneeze.”

 

Arthur doesn’t sneeze. His face twitches about for a bit, then settles again, leaving him frustrated, wheezy, and massaging his temple.

 

“Almost bless you,” Lance says. “I have a friend who did English lit at uni, he might know stuff about poetry. To be honest I usually switched off when he started talking about books and stuff. I nodded politely along and let him talk, which he liked, but I remember zero of what was actually said.”

 

“Introduce me. When I’m not leaking snot. It’s coming out of my eyes. Did you know snot can come out of your eyes?”

 

“Mm, sinus infection,” Lance says. “Do you want a hot washcloth? It’ll help with the sinuses. And you should take a decongestant. That’s what I do, for my allergies.”

 

Arthur nods, so Lance sets him up the way he does for himself, a washcloth over his eyes and nose, a decongestant spray, a cup of steaming lemon and honey. Arthur falls asleep, and Lance texts Leon, to see if he’s still around or if he’s finally fulfilled his promise to bugger off to the highlands of Scotland and become a hermit. He’s still in London, though, and so Lance takes Arthur with him to grab a coffee, on Thursday. Leon looks mostly the same. More hair, a little older, a little softer. He takes to Arthur at once, and Lance is left as something of a third wheel. He texts Merlin to join them and has his own companion, making it more balanced.

 

“You think I could?” Arthur asks, the hint of nervousness getting Merlin’s, and therefore Lance’s, attention. “I’m not sure I understand enough.”

 

“For poetry you don’t have to understand. You put it how _you_ know it, not how someone else knows it. There are no qualifications, it’s an equal-opportunities sport,” Leon says.

 

“Poetry isn’t a sport,” Lance says. He remembers this. He holds up a hand to stop any protests. “I don’t care that they had it at the olympics after the war, or that it takes a lot of mental energy, or that you train for forty hours a week, or anything.”

 

“See? It’s a sport,” Leon says, and Arthur nods along. Before turning abruptly away and sneezing his little, kitten sneezes. “Aw, that’s cute.”

 

“It’s majestic,” Arthus says, ‘m’s coming out as ‘b’s, sniffing. Merlin passes him a wad of napkins.

 

“Anyway, you could totally write poetry,” Leon says. “We’ll do it on a theme. Come on. I’ve got pens and papers.”

 

“I haven’t even read any poetry,” Arthur protests, coughing. “And I’m sick.”

 

“I can see that,” Leon says. “Okay, fair enough, I’ll give you some stuff to read and next time we meet you can have a go. How about that?”

 

“I want a go today,” Arthur says, shaking his head, still sniffing. “Ugggh. Get out of my head, snot!”

 

Leon laughs, and grabs more napkins for him. Merlin and Lance exchange a look, amused by how enamoured Leon seems to be of Arthur. He reads Arthur a few poems, and then they have a go at writing, choosing ‘lemon and honey’ for their theme. Lance is given paper and a pen, too, and told he has to join in. To be supportive. Merlin as well.

 

“What’ve you all got?” Leon asks, enthusiasm pouring off him.

 

“Lemon and honey, don’t give it to the bunnies, it costs money, and then I couldn’t think of any more rhymes,” Merlin says.

 

“Lance?” Leon asks, giving Merlin a censoring look and zero praise.

 

Lance, who has been on the receiving end of Leon’s smiles and praise enough to actually want it, has had a good try.

 

“Sweet and dry and rough and sour, dose by dose, hour by hour, soothing throat and comforting, enabling me to sing, in the shower,” Lance says.

 

Arthur snorts with laughter, coughing a bit, holding onto Leon’s shoulder. He beams at Lance and claps, and that makes Leon smile. Leon smiles warmly and sweetly at Lancelot and reaches over to gives his arm a proud pat. Merlin sulks, having got no such reaction for his pathetic attempt.

 

“You go next, Leon,” Arthur says. “I want to hear what a proper poet can write.”

 

“Oh. No, no, I’m not… I’m not a poet. Not really,” Leon says. “I’m a waiter. I work at Pizza Express.”

 

“A struggling writer,” Arthur says, nodding. “I know. I’ve seen the films.”

 

“I’m training to be a chef,” Leon says.

 

“Okay,” Arthur says. “A more viable career than writing. But writing is your other passion, and when you’re old and retired, you’ll write a book.”

 

“Uh,” Leon says, sending Lance panicked glances. Lance stifles his amusement and suggest Leon just read his poem. Leon flushes, shuts his eyes, then sighs. “I suppose I did write it, knowing you’d want to hear it. Oh well.

 

Warm-gold, sunned, heat and sweet,

Wrapped tight and buzzed, close, brush of it against

Skin.

 

Yellow-bright, bitter sharp burst,

Thick sugar tongue, hand warm, lips warm, against

Mine.”

 

“Did you turn lemon and honey into a love poem?” Lance asks, laughing, unable to help himself. Leon flushes harder.

 

“Warm gold sunned heat and sweet,” Arthur says, tonguing over the worlds as if tasting them. Leon blushes scarlet. “That’s nice.”

 

“It reminds me…” Merlin says, grinning, at Arthur: sprawled on the sofa in the window, he’s been shifting with the sun, shirt tugged up to get more on his skin, pressing close to Leon to get more warmth and light. Leon chokes on his coffee and jumps up to go to the bathroom, leaving Lance and Merlin laughing too hard to do anything.

 

“You upset him,” Arthur says. “He didn’t listen to my poem.”

 

“He’ll be back,” Lance says, breathless. “We didn’t upset him, just embarrassed him.”

 

“Why? It was a nice poem,” Arthur says.

 

“It was about something,” Merlin says.

 

“Yes, lemon and honey. Because it’s warm and sweet, and the cups nice in your hands,” Arthur says, frowning.

 

“He was writing about _someone_ ,” Lance says. “Not the drink.”

 

Arthur pulls Leon’s paper to him and reads over it a few times, then grins, understanding. When Leon comes back Arthur folds the paper and puts it in the pocket of Leon’s shirt.

 

“She’s very lucky to have you,” Arthur says, sending Merlin and Lance into further paroxysms of laughter.

 

“Oh shut up you berks,” Leon mutters. “It was about you, Arthur. Sort of. It was just made up emotion, but it came from watching you in the sun. These two are just being a pair of bananas, because they don’t understand fiction.”

 

“About me?” Arthur says. “Ha! About me.”

 

“Did you write anything?” Leon asks.

 

“Yes, yes I did,” Arthur says, proud and punch and very smug. He sounds and looks very much like the cat who got the cream. He shakes out his paper and clears his throat, then has to cough, and sneeze into his shoulder.

 

“Bless you,” Leon says. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I have a sinus infection, according to Lancelot. My nose is trying to explode itself. Okay. Here we go. Lance brought me hot honey- see, ‘me’ sort of fits with ‘honey’, doesn’t it?”

 

“Yeah, internal rhyme, that’s nice,” Leon says. “Anything else?”

 

“Yes,” Arthur says, clearing his throat again. “Lance brought me hot honey, gold to chase the butter and soft and delighted in my mouth like fish- that’s a simile, Merlin.”

 

“So it is,” Merlin says. “How about I read your poem for you, and you stop interrupting yourself?”

 

“I would be interrupting you, if you read it,” Arthur says, but he passes the paper over with a little grump.

 

He verbs ‘grump’. He’s not grumpy, he does a grump. A little slump huff glower thing. Lance bites his lip to keep from laughing. Leon clearly just finds it adorable.

 

“Lance brought me hot honey,

Gold to chase the butter and soft delight in my mouth like fish,

The bright day Hunith gave me- when the hell did Mum give you that? Those were mine!” Merlin says.

 

“Are we ever going to get to hear this poem?” Leon groans. Lance takes the paper.

 

“Lance brought me hot honey, gold to chase, butter soft delight mouth like fish,” he speeds through the bit they’ve heard a hundred times,

 

“The bright day Hunith gave me babybells, taken fresh from the fridge

And not the day the lemons fell on my head.

Gold chased tail when I was a kitten, my fur still thick, the matt of honey that Merlin dropped sweet,

Soothe my throat, golden god in a mug. Soothe me.”

 

Merlin starts to laugh, but Leon looks impressed.

 

“Oh no, he’s not some modernist poetic genius is he?” Lance says, shoving the paper at Leon.

 

“I liked it,” Leon says. “The train of memories, and the metaphor of being a kitten. And the last line is awesome.”

 

“It is isn’t it?” Arthur says, preening under the praise. Leon smoothes the poem out and gives it back, then pulls the one out of his pocket and gives Arthur that, too. “No, it’s worth too much.”

 

“What? It’s worth nothing,” Leon says.

 

“It’s your creation, you made it out of nothing. It’s about me. It’s a poem, an actual poem by a cooking poet,” Arthur says, folding Leon’s hand around it. “No. It’s yours, you keep it. It’s part of you. You can give me them when you’ve known me longer.”

 

“Arthur has a different system of value than most,” Merlin says, gently, stopping Leon trying to hand the poem over again. “It’s like you’re trying to give him a Ferrari.”

 

“You’re amazing, you know that, Arthur?” Leon says.

 

Arthur finally realises that Leon’s flirting, freaks out, and makes a run for it. Merlin sighs, but waves Leon back down, following Arthur instead. They come back twenty minutes later, Arthur looking pale and iller than he did before.

 

“I’m asexual,” Arthur announces.

 

“Okay,” Leon says. “Do you want to get a drink? One that doesn’t end in sex?”

 

“No,” Arthur says, frowning. “I’m not a person you can date. I’m asexual.”

 

“That’s fine,” Leon says.

 

“And I’m developmentally challenged,” Arthur says.

 

“Can you make your own choices and consent to things?” Leon says.

 

“Of course,” Arthur says, and Merlin nods, grinning widely.

 

“Then, if you want to get a drink, I would like that. If you don’t want to, you can say no, if you’re looking for excuses,” Leon says.

 

“I…” Arthur looks at Lance, bewildered and red nosed and slightly wheezy. Lance gives him a soft smile, and shrugs. It’s Arthur’s choice. If he wants to date Leon, knowing he’s part cat, Lance isn’t going to suggest it’s a bad idea. “Okay. Do you know about magic?”

 

“Yeah, a bit,” Leon says. “I guess not as much as most, but a bit.”

 

“Then I’ll have a drink with you,” Arthur says.

 

Merlin takes him home, then, and Leon and Lance catch up before going their separate ways. Lance is peripherally aware of Arthur and Leon’s Adventures in Dating, mostly from Merlin’s highly amused repetitions of them, but he’s distracted. Gwen’s having a bit of a breakdown about stress at work, and they’re busy trying to work it so ze can take a few months sick leave to get zir head on straight again. Zir depression and anxiety has zir calling him several times a day, either on the edge of a panic attack or coming out the other end of one.

 

“It’s alright, love,” Lance says, phone between his ear and shoulder, one evening. “I’ll be home soon. I’ve just got to process this pile of junk for Gwaine, he has three volunteer coordinators going on maternity leave in a few months and there’s a bit of chaos about it.”

 

“Can you come now?” Gwen asks. “I can’t get the oven to turn on and I’ve lost one of my slippers and my binder’s not working and I think Morgana hates me because I cancelled on her again.”

 

“Your slipper’s under the bed, I think, Arthur was playing with it, when I brought him home as a cat the other day. You look absolutely handsome, I love the way that tank top makes you all straight up and down and your thighs look fucking amazing in those shorts, like a proper olympian or something. And Morgana doesn’t hate you. But I do need to stay at work.”

 

“Damn you. What about the oven?” Gwen says. “Oh, here’s my slipper. That’s a relief.”

 

“The oven must be on a timer or something, I staggered into it this morning before my coffee. You alright?”

 

“Bit better. Can you stay on a while?”

 

“Mm, ten minute break for a coffee. Christ, it’s only five, I’ve got another hour of overtime to work,” Lance says, catching sight of the clock. “Do you want gossip?”

 

“Not more about Arthur and Leon, they’re very sweet but never do interesting things. Like fight, or get pregnant,” Gwen says. “Fixed the oven. I’m having a pizza, you okay to do yourself dinner?”

 

“Yep. Okay, not Arthur and Leon. Oh! What about Gwaine and Percy? Percy, according to Merlin, is whisking Gwaine away on a romantic long weekend in the Yorkshire dales.”

 

“Yes, tell me about them,” Gwen says. “Nice gay people doing nice happy gay things.”

 

“What did you watch this time?” Lance asks.

 

“Call the Midwife,” Gwen admits. “Poor Patsy. Fucking wanking hetero nonsense all happy around the destruction of her happy little flat and the flowers and fuck, I’m going to cry again.”

 

“Baby, you know they get a happier story in the next series,” Lance says. “She comes back, and they get some joy.”

 

“Yeah, yeah they do.”

 

“What about Legend of Korra? Think of those happy lesbians. Or, um, that web thing you watched. All for One. Happy bi people. Or! Oh, oh, I know!”

 

“Tell me about the real life happy gays, Lance.”

 

“Right. Gwaine and Percy. They were arguing about whether Gwaine should go out and buy special walking socks, this morning. According to Merlin yesterday they argued about whether Percy should or should not make pizza from scratch.”

 

“Aw, they’re so happy,” Gwen says, and ze’s crying now, but a better sort of crying than crying over Call the Midwife would have been. “And the nice happy lesbians from Korra. I’ll have them all.”

 

“And your happy lesbian gardeners,” Lance soothes, sipping his coffee, smiling. “You’re the absolute sweetest person the world, my love.”

 

“I’m gonna take my pizza and watch Rosemary and Thyme, and maybe Korra. I love you Lance, you’re the best.”

 

Ze’s curled on the sofa when Lance gets home, with the happy news that ze’s got three months off. And the even happier news that Morgana isn’t mad, and is going to come over next time and do something that Gwen finds easy and non-stressful. Gwen sighs, stretches, and wraps zir arms around Lance, smiling happily.

 

“You’re home,” ze says, lips against Lance’s skin.

 

“Yes, for the whole entire weekend, babe,” Lance says, kissing zir hair.

 

Gwen sort of adopts Arthur. Lance and Merlin start heading habitually to Lance’s after work, because Arthur tends to be there. He works half days for Gwaine, which Lance hadn’t realised because he’s usually hanging around the office when he isn’t working. Once Gwen’s not working, though, Arthur goes to her, and they Cuddle. All over the house, in all kinds of tangled up ways. Curled on the sofa; in the kitchen with Arthur as a cat in Gwen’s lap; upright against the bookshelf looking at and discussing books; sat in the window with their limbs all tangled up. All kinds of ways.

 

“I’m jealous,” Lance says, on a Wednesday, when he gets home to Arthur sprawled on the sofa with Gwen on top of him. “This is a compromising position I’ve walked in on, and you don’t even care.”

 

“Cuddly,” Gwen mumbles.

 

“Gaah,” Arthur says.

 

“Arthur’s really soft,” Gwen says, lifting her head away from Arthur’s chest. “He’s getting a squishy belly, because I keep feeding him lots.”

 

“He is, I wondered where it was coming from,” Merlin says, strolling in behind Lance. “Leon’s coming over tonight, Arth, get up or he’ll have to wait in the hall.”

 

Arthur doesn’t seem to mind about leaving Leon in the hall, but Gwen gets off him and he rolls off the sofa, tumbling into cat form and stalking out. He’s curled up on Lance’s chair waiting for him, next day. He’s human, but he looks more like a cat than he sometimes does as a cat. Mithian’s away, having a day off, so Lance sits in her chair with his coffee and leaves Arthur where he is.

 

“I’m not stealing your enby-friend,” Arthur says, awkward and stilted and very much ‘Arthur reaching for human stuff’. “I just miss the physical contact of being petted. I can still get petted as a cat, but this is like human equivalent. Leon likes hugging and stuff, but not smushing all together like Gwen does. It isn’t appropriate?”

 

Lance smiles, touched that Arthur would take him seriously and take the time to check in with him, make sure he’s not stepping on toes. Make sure he’s getting This Human Thing right. Lance sips his coffee and crosses his legs, beaming.

 

“Mate, you’re fine,” Lance says. “Ze does what ze wants, me and zir are open about stuff like crushes and so on, and there isn’t anything to worry about anyway because, like you say, ze just likes smushes.”

 

“Good. That’s good,” Arthur says, twirling around on the chair. “Do you like smushing?”

 

“Yeah, sometimes. Not at the office.”

 

Arthur laughs, and gets up to stalk up and down the room, then lies on his back on the floor. He sticks around the office most of the morning, then buggers off to Gwen. When Lance gets home in the evening, Gwen gets up away from zir smush with Arthur, but only so ze can smush Lance between them. It’s nice, lying on the rug in front of the radiator with them both. Merlin sits on the sofa, and Lance feels bad.

 

“Shouldn’t we get Merlin in, too?” he asks.

 

“Merlin doesn’t want to smush,” Arthur grumbles, hands tugging to keep Lance in place. “He only likes cuddling when I’m a cat.”

 

“You sleep in my bed half the time, Arthur, and lie on me on the sofa, and wrap yourself around me all the time,” Merlin says.

 

“Lance should teach you and Leon about cuddling. Leon’s so lovely and cuddly, but he’s rubbish at it,” Arthur says. “He bought me fish and chips yesterday, did I tell you?”

 

“He got me fish and chips, too, and we ate it on the living room floor,” Merlin says.

 

“Not _you_! Lancelot!” Arthur bellows, suddenly rolling away and getting to his feet, leaping onto the sofa, all in one swift movement. He curls with his head on Merlin’s thigh. “I know you were there, I remember you trying to escape.”

 

“I don’t want to be a gooseberry,” Merlin mutters.

 

Arthur flops a hand around until it lands against Merlin’s cheek. It rests there for a moment, then falls.

 

“I like this,” Lance says to Gwen, rubbing their noses together. Ze giggles. All zir hair is loose around zir head, and ze’s wearing so much colour today. “You look amazing. You feel amazing.”

 

“That’s our cue to go home, Arthur,” Merlin says, laughing.

 

“Smush sex,” Gwen murmurs, smiling. “Mushy smushy smush sex.”

 

They have lovely mushy smushy smush sex on the rug, once Arthur and Merlin are gone. Gwen’s all pliant and happy and pleased, and doesn’t worry about zir body or anything, and it just present and amazing. Lance bundles zir into more cuddles afterwards.  


	4. Chapter 4

They’ve been working, both of them, for Gwaine for three years. They have Lance, and Gwaine, and Gwen, and Percy, and Arthur has Leon. Merlin spends a lot of time at home or at the library. The magic he does for Gwaine is mostly of bureaucratic, government type, and Merlin misses the academic and research side of things. He’s doing side projects. He’s still, somehow, lonely. On his own. No matter that he has a cat, and a best friend who crawls into bed with him a lot of the time, and another best friend who has a key to their flat and often pops by to make them breakfast and settle his head. Though he sometimes goes to Percy’s for that, now, he still likes Merlin and Arthur’s flat in the mornings. It’s not like he wants for company, or people who love him and are lovely to him, or people who show him affection. They’re all physically affectionate, too. But he’s still alone among a sea of people with partners, and it’s lonely.

 

And then there’s his mother. He can’t seem to patch things up with her, no matter what kind of common ground they find. Gaius is ill, and Merlin’s trying to talk him into either moving to Ireland with Hunith, or London with them. He’s also trying to talk Hunith into moving to Leeds with Gaius. She won’t leave Ireland, though, and Merlin doesn’t understand it. He knows if she did move, he’d be incredibly hurt. Because she didn’t move for him, when he left. She stayed then. For her to move for Gaius but not for Merlin would be terribly painful. Arthur’s still only working half days, and Gwen’s working three day weeks, so the two of them spend a lot of afternoons together. Merlin’s skyping hunith one evening when Gwen comes in, Arthur the cat in zir arms, his bag over zir shoulder.

 

“Mum, I just think it’d be easier,” Merlin says. “I’m not trying to force you into anything, or be a nag. I’m trying to understand. Arthur’s home, and Gwen’s here, I should go.”

 

“I don’t know how to explain this,” Hunith says, drying her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just haven’t got an answer for you. Maybe I did make the wrong choice, to stay all those years ago, but it was so long ago. I don’t know.”

 

“It’s okay, I don’t hold that against you,” Merlin says. Lies. He does hold it against her, and he always will until they both talk about it, but neither of them are willing. So they pretend everything’s okay. “I’ll speak to you soon.”

 

“Bye. I do love you, Merlin.”

 

“Now that’s something I know,” Merlin says. “I love you, too. Bye.”

 

He shuts the laptop and Gwen flumps onto the sofa, sighing heavily, resting zir head on Merlin’s shoulder.

 

“Arthur won’t change back. I think Leon dumped him,” Gwen says.

 

“Huh?” Merlin says, head still with his mother.

 

“Leon, his boyfriend,” Gwen says.

 

Ze’s suddenly got a lapful of angry, hissing cat, and then Arthur squirms out of it, falling to the floor on all fours. He gets up, completely naked, hands on hips, and glowers down at them. Merlin and Gwen gaze at Arthur’s eye-level groin, and then look at each other and giggle, then laugh, hanging on to one another, unable to stop. Arthur stomps away and comes back in pyjama bottoms, flinging himself to sprawl at their feet.

 

“Humans. You’re so fucking weird about nudity,” Arthur says. “Leon did not dump me. I just told him I’d like to… and he said ‘that’s just being friends’... and I said ‘yes’... and then he told me that _I’d_ dumped _him_!”

 

“From the sound of it you kind of did,” Merlin says.

 

“No. Dumping is when you stop a relationship,” Arthur says. “I just want to change ours. That’s about moving forwards. I went on the internet to see.”

 

“Uh, friendship is usually seen as a step backwards,” Gwen says. “Not forwards.”

 

Arthur goggles up at them as if they’re nuts, then sits up, cross-legged, and stares at them some more, head tipped to one side.

 

“You humans are really weird,” Arthur says. “Let me get this straight. This, this… romantic. Romantic things are Important, and friendship is… but, but, Merlin! _You’re_ my friend!”

 

Merlin bursts into tears then, and their conversation is derailed. Gwen and Arthur smush him between them, and then Arthur pushes Gwen away and pulls Merlin to rest his head on Arthur’s chest, and strokes his hair and shushes him. Like Merlin’s a small child. Like Hunith used to do, holding him in her lap, when he was very little. He cries harder, clinging to Arthur. Arthur doesn’t seem to mind the swamp of emotion, which isn’t unusual. Merlin’s always surprised, because Arthur’s usually a bit useless about emotions. But when Merlin’s upset, Arthur always notices, and always tries to make it better. Usually he manages it.

 

“I don’t understand,” Arthur says, when Merlin’s down to hiccupping and shaky breaths. “I thought that friends were the most important. Because Lancelot says the best thing about him and Gwen is that ze’s his best friend. And Percival and Gwaine are friends.”

 

“Yeah, but… I dunno,” Merlin says. “I’m too sad to explain human psychology, that I don’t even understand, to a cat.”

 

“Okay. I will tell you about cat psychology, then. Romantic is important, but friendship, our kind of friendship, where you’re just important, that kind where it lasts and lasts, that’s most important. Hang on, I said important a lot. I thought I was upgrading Leon to a better status. I still sort of think of you guys as my pets, honestly.”

 

Merlin laughs, and Arthur ruffles his hair, which means he probably was just trying to make Merlin laugh. Probably.

 

“Romantic is forever, settle down, build a life together. Friendship _can_ be forever, but it’s… friendship that lasts fits around commitments,” Merlin says. “I think.”

 

“I live with you, though. I have a life with you already, I can’t go running off with Leon. If he’s my friend, he can be like Gwaine and just be in and out and stuff. Romantic he has to do dating things, and come for dinner, and I have to go to his house. I never go to Gwaine’s, which is much better.”

 

“You go to Lance and Gwen’s,” Merlin says.

 

“I _know_. I have been _trying_ to train them, but they have a big house and like it there. Besides, they’re not Gwaine, are they? Gwaine’s our best friend, he basically lives with us, too. I was upgrading Leon to Gwaine-status. Is he not going to be my friend, though?”

 

“Probably not,” Merlin says. “Bit awkward, really. Maybe in a while. Let him set the pace. Something different happened for him than happened for you.”

 

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Okay. How’s Hunith?”

 

“Fine, as always. She cried. I don’t get it.”

 

“Nor do I. I liked Ireland,” Arthur says. “I’m hungry. Do you think Gwen’s just hiding in the kitchen, or do you think ze got bored and started doing cooking things?”

 

Arthur gets up and goes to investigate. He sticks out of the kitchen a moment later with a grin and thumbs up, before vanishing again. Merlin wraps himself in the blanket on the back of the sofa, and emails Gaius asking for updates. Gaius sends him them in a trickle over the next week: his hip surgery went well, his angina is fine and dandy and barely there, the pain in his knees and hands from arthritis is irritating but barely bothers him, he fell but he’s fine, he’s fine he’s fine he’s fine.

 

“You’re not fine!” Merlin tells him on Friday, after driving up there.

 

“Hello Merlin, nice to see you. How are you? I’m well. Thank you for visiting. Come on in,” Gaius says.

 

“Right, yes, hello, all that,” Merlin says, inching past and kicking off his shoes. “But also! You’re not fine!”

 

“Dear me, you’re so dramatic,” Gaius says. “Let’s go through to the kitchen, have a nice cup of tea.”

 

Merlin bullies Gaius into letting him make the tea. He vacuums and does the dishes and a load of laundry while he’s at it, too. Gaius sits in his rocking chair and watches him, amused, not bothering to try and stop him. When he’s done he falls into a chair and gulps his cold ish coffee. Gaius snorts.

 

“I’m quite alright, Merlin.”

 

“You have no food here,” Merlin says. “You fell. You weren’t supposed to be alone the night after that surgery.”

 

“I just haven’t been out for a bit, I’ll go get some shopping done later,” Gaius says.

 

“No. I’ll go in the car. You’re more stubborn than Arthur is. At least when Arthur’s hurt or ill he lets you help.”

 

He stays the week at Gaius’s, trying to bulster him up to be left alone again. He wants to stay longer, but he shouldn’t take advantage of working for his best mate too much. Not when Gaius technically can manage on his own. Merlin drives up every weekend the rest of the month, though. Between that and work he’s exhausted, and mostly just sleeps and works and drives. He sees Arthur only when Arthur crawls into bed with him. It’s exhausting, and it’s heartbreaking too, because Gaius is old, and he’s shaky, and he forgets things. He’s always pleased to see Merlin, even when he’s grouchy about it. And that bit is nice. And Arthur’s pleased to see him, too. He gets a cold, of course, two weeks into his second month of it.

 

“Bless you!” Arthur calls, when Merlin drags himself in from work with a huge sneeze.

 

Merlin peels himself out of most of his clothes and his shoes and his socks and goes to collapse on the sofa, not even caring that Arthur’s already there. Arthur growls and escapes, because of the snot. He’s complained a lot about the amount of snot Merlin’s currently producing. Which is unfair, because Merlin never complains when Arthur gets a cold and sneezes all over the him. Arthur gives him tissues and a blanket and then retreats to the kitchen. Merlin can hear him talking in there. Merlin puts the TV on and sulks until Arthur brings him soup and a duvet and sits under his head with a pillow and more tissues and paracetamol and strokes his hair.

 

“We’re moving,” Arthur says.

 

“Noooo, never moving again,” Merlin moans, all his phonetical nasals coming out as plosives.

 

“House, Merlin. We’re moving house. Gwen’s brother’s an estate agent, so he’s gonna do most of the work for us. I’ve given him a description and list of things we need,” Arthur says. “And-”

 

“I don’t wanna move,” Merlin grumps. “I’ve lived here forever. I like it here.”

 

“There’s mould, and it’s damp,” Arthur says. “AND Gaius is moving down with us, so we need a bigger place. And Hunith’s visiting, when we’ve moved. So it needs to be super big.”

 

“We can’t afford a big place in London.”

 

“Which is why we’re moving to New Malden,” Arthur says .”Or, you know, somewhere similar. Wokingham, or Redhill. On the trainline, commuting distance. Gwaine will cover travel costs. He does it for Mithian. Did you know she has a wife and a house full of children?”

 

“I did not,” Merlin admits. “Are you going to make me lemon and honey for my throat?”

 

“No, because I’d have to move and you’ll whine if I move.”

 

“True.”

 

Arthur does move eventually, and he makes Merlin lemon and honey, and he lets Merlin sleep in his bed which he rarely allows. It’s covered in cat hair and irritates Merlin’s sinuses but he doesn’t give a damn. Arthur’s really nice to him the rest of the week and on Friday, he does something that makes Merlin think he’s quite a lot in love. He drives up to Gaius’s, without Merlin, and stays there until Tuesday. Merlin has to finish out his cold on his own, but he doesn’t have to drive up to Leeds, he can get some much needed rest, and he doesn’t need to worry about Gaius. Beside, Gwaine and Lance both spend the majority of the weekend over, crashed on the sofa with him, watching Netflix and providing him with blankets and hugs and soup and lemon and honey. They’ve definitely been given instructions by Arthur.

 

It’s sort of nice, being looked after. It feels strange, and new, and that makes Merlin a bit sad. He talks to his Mum a lot, tired and unhappy, about being tired and unhappy and about how it feels to be cared for. She cries a lot, but quietly and without derailing his rambling trains of thoughts. Arthur continues going up to Leeds, and he does all the house checking with Elyan, Gwen’s brother, too. Merlin only has to go to work, and chat with his Mum, and sleep. It’s a really nice month. Though the talking to his Mum stuff is sad.

 

Then they’re moving, and Merlin cries A LOT about that. He tags after Arthur, holding random things that have sentimental value, while Arthur packs up the flat. Then he sits in the cab of the van they hire and rides to the new hour with Percy and Arthur, who chat and joke and talk wistfully about pizza and beer. Merlin gets out at the new house and it’s nice, nice enough. It’s in Morden, right near a park. Merlin doesn’t really car. He sits in the kitchen on the counter until Arthur and Percy carry in the sofa. Arthur brings Merlin a blanket, a book, and the ipad, and then they leave him on the sofa.

 

The house in unpacked around him, and they gather in the living room, sitting on the floor because Merlin’s taking up the entire sofa, and the armchairs are both covered in stuff. Arthur rings for pizza and tries to get three servings of anchovies on everything, along with ‘as much meat as you can stuff on there’. Luckily, Gwen confiscates the phone and makes a more balanced order. Gwaine tops things off by arriving from the office with two six packs of beer. Merlin helps himself to pizza and ignores Lance’s suggestion that he shift his feet. Lance just sits on his ankles, which is fair enough really.

 

It takes Merlin a week to stop moping around and realise that a.) because Gaius is having a room downstairs, what was labelled a dining room, and because there’s a conservatory, there’s space for them to have both a spare room, upstairs, and an office space, out in the conservatory. They also have a bit of garden, shared with the neighbours, out the back. The park is right over the road. And it’s sunny. He starts going out into the garden and making plans for their half of the flower beds, after work. He also starts unpacking boxes and setting things to rights.

 

“Great!” Arthur says, a week later. “Let’s fetch Gaius, now we’re settled.”

 

“We? You haven’t done a thing since moving in,” Merlin points out.

 

“Yah, but I brought in all the things, so. Gaius has a lot of things and doesn’t want to let any of them go, so I’ve said he can have some shelves in the office conservatory thing, and in the spare room, and some of the space in the kitchen. I also thought it might be nice for him to have the downstairs bathroom to himself, as his ensuit, so he has some privacy. And to give him some time in the living room where it’s just his. And maybe let him have some space in the conservatory for a desk or rocking chair, or both.”

 

“Whatever you like,” Merlin says.

 

“I’ve been sleeping in your room every night, for the past month. I really like it.”

 

“Have you really?” Merlin says, surprised. “I suppose you have. I didn’t notice. It is nice.”

 

“So we should just call your room our room, and turn mine into a sitting room upstairs, and Gaius can just have the one down here, and shove a desk in it, instead of the conservatory.”

 

“How much rent are we paying, Arthur?” Merlin says. “This place is huge!”

 

“Gaius is going to pay half,” Arthur says, shifting.

 

“How much is it?”

 

“Only one thousand eight hundred. Gaius pays nine hundred, and we pay nine hundred. It’s not much more than we were paying before,” Arthur says. “Council tax is less, too.”

 

“That’s not bad. How come I haven’t paid any attention to this?”

 

“You’re depressed,” Arthur says. “Probably clinically, I dunno. Maybe just sad. You should go to therapy, like Gwaine.”

 

“Probably. Gaius pays eight hundred. We can afford to cover the rest, if you work two of your days full.”

 

“I… yeah, okay,” Arthur says. “I do anyway, basically, don’t I? I hang around the office anyway. When Gwen’s working. I’ll see if Gwaine needs it.”

 

“He does,” Merlin says. “I told him I’d talk to you. He wants three full days.”

 

“That might be a bit much,” Arthur says, shifting. “I don’t… it’s hard, sometimes. To keep human, to remember everything, behave right, not… it’s hard.”

 

“That’s why I said two.”

 

“Good. I googled it, by the way.”

 

“Oh no. Googled what?”

 

“What to call you, if I sleep in your room, and we share our life, but we’re not romantic.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Queerplatonic. I don’t like it. It’s silly. I like best friends, better.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“But, it’s like queerplatonic, okay? Yeah? Me and you. We’re always, right?”

 

“Yes. Yes, I think we probably are,” Merlin says, smiling.

 

He still doesn’t know why his Mum left him with Gaius, all those years ago. Living with his uncle is going to be an adventure. He’s sure Arthur’s going to drive him up the wall, sometimes, sharing so much space so intimately. They have a spare room, though, and office space, two living rooms, a garden, a park. There’s plenty of space. His Mum loves him, Gaius is going to be okay. He’s not unhappy with his lot in life, all in all. He wraps himself around Arthur, kisses his cheek, and then goes to make tuna casserole. Arthur hums happily when he sees the ingredients out on the counter, and snags Merlin for another embrace.

 

**

 

“When your father went missing, he went missing as a sorcerer, in enemy territory. I was so sick with fear, that the same thing might happen to you one day. That you’d follow in his footsteps and become a soldier. He chose to be a soldier because he was… he wanted to make Ireland a better place, help, keep people safe. I thought it was Ireland that made him choose duty over me. Over us,” Hunith tells him, two months later.

 

They’re sitting in the upstairs living room, with tea and biscuits. Arthur’s down with Gaius, probaby as a cat spread over his knees while Gaius reads. Arthur likes that.

 

“I sent you away because I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted you safe, away from all the mess, the fuss. I couldn’t care for you, I was tired and scared and so very sad, about your Da. He was my love, my heart,” Hunith says, wiping her eyes. “I would have come with you, but I though, if I couldn’t look after you, I didn’t deserve to have you in my life, your bright happiness. I just fell apart, Merlin. I just… fell apart.”

 

“It’s alright, Mum,” Merlin says. “I forgive you.”

 

“Really, this time?”

 

“Really. I understand. No, I don’t, but I understand enough. It’ll always hurt that you did it, but yes, I forgive.”

 

“I’ll visit more, make more of an effort.”

 

“You could move here,” Merlin says, smiling. “Cram in with us?”

 

“No. No, I can’t leave Ireland, not now. Not so late in life.”

 

“I suppose it’s your home. Mam, it isn’t mine anymore,” Merlin says, sadly, taking her hand. “This is. With Gaius, and Arthur, and our friends.”

 

“I know. I’ve seen that. It’s a beautiful home you built for yourself, my beautiful, clever boy,” Hunith says. “Are you happy?”

 

“Happy? No, I don’t think so. I have depression, though it’s not too bad most of the time sometimes it swallows me whole. I see a GP and I’m on a waiting list for a CBT thing, and I’m doing other things about it. Sometimes I’m happy, though, and I like what I’ve got,” Merlin says. “I’m working on it. I think I am content, and that I like my life. That’s enough, isn’t it? To be eternally happy. They lived happily ever after. That’s just… just stories, isn’t it? Real life is different. Better. Moments of happiness.”

 

She takes his other hand, shifting so she’s holding both, and raises each to her lips to kiss. Then she wipes away her tears, and embraces him. Arthur pads in, nudging the door open, firmly a cat today. Hunith laughs, still not entirely used to him, calls him Kitty, and scoops him into her lap, petting him and making him purr.


End file.
